


Oversight - The Reign

by Johnny Congaman (Johnny_Congaman)



Series: The Oversight Mirror Universe [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe, Canceled Overwatch Characters - Freeform, Drama, Ensemble Cast, F/F, Mirror Universe, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Tragedy, Unrequited Love, Widowmercy - Freeform, mercymaker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-03-08 09:38:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 59,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13455543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johnny_Congaman/pseuds/Johnny%20Congaman
Summary: In a world where five years have passed since Oversight was attacked, those who had been part of it, and those who still are, continue to live their lives. The new normalcy doesn't sit well with many of them, but for most, it's the best they can hope for. Yet the shadow of the past looms dark over all of them, and it will take all they've got to escape into the light.





	1. Old Places

September 25th, 2073  
Bir Tawil, between the Egypt and Sudan

Ana Amari looked down at her scope, the narrow circle showing her the abandoned streets below, as well as a few of its occupants. Her trigger finger twitched slightly, and on occasion she would move away from the scope to get a better overall view of the dusty land below as well as its occupants. She was a proud Egyptian, to be sure, but in this case she curse the stubborn pride of her homeland. Bir Tawil had been a contested area between Egypt in the north and Sudan in the south, and in an attempt to settle the issue, Egypt had actually tried to build a city here in 2024. So sure were the project's planners of their success, they began construction of buildings even before approval had been obtained from Sudan, international courts, or even the local governments of Aswan and Luxor. 

The latter case was especially galling; Cairo would have probably given the go-ahead to the plan regardless of what the world or Sudan said, but when Aswan and Luxor showed the costs of draining Lake Nasser, the nearest source of water, to continuously deliver water to a destination almost 200 kilometres away, Cairo balked. The government of the time fell, and the lost city of Bir Tawil came to being, its buildings half-buried under shifting sands. Buildings and streets which were supposed to serve a city of thousands (at least), now housed nothing but silent winds- and on occasion, quiet deals between both nations' criminals. It wasn't as if Bir Tawil had no laws- on the contrary, it had the laws of two nations governing it. And if there was one thing great nations feared more than war or disorder, it was international bureaucracy. 

In any case, the abandoned apartment she was taking shelter in was high enough to afford her a good view of the operations area, and cool enough to protect her from the desert sun. Even so, she wished she found a better position; right now, she felt too far from where any fighting could take place. Ana couldn't care less about glory, action or kill counts, but her family was down there, literal and figurative.

She peered through the scope again. Even without her scope she could spot Mirembe's dyed blond hair and al-Farouk confident swagger. They were worlds apart- Mirembe was from Sudanese Intelligence, while al-Farouk was one of Helix Security's most promising new officers, but their relationship seemed to be moving beyond the merely professional, and Ana wished them both the best. Bayless and Singh were an odd couple, odd in that they were both stepbrothers, and some of the few foreigners in Helix's ranks. Despite their obviously different backgrounds, they got along amazingly well- even now, as they stepped out of the jeep that they used to escort their little convoy there, the two of them were engaging in yet another one of their ridiculously overcomplicated handshakes. 

Ahead of the pack was Kimiko, the Interpol agent who'd set this up in the first place. Like the others, she was dressed in a flak jacket, grey tank top and cargo boots, looking every bit the small-time arms dealer she appeared to be. If Ana was being honest, Kimiko made her feel a little uncomfortable at first- the Japanese woman was professional to a fault, and when she stood still, Ana had her doubts the woman even breathed. But after a few bad first impressions on both sides (and resulting apologies), they got to talking about their children, and found a lot of common ground in motherhood. Ana even offered some advice on raising particularly wilful daughters, which Kimiko had said she was eager to try as soon as she got back to Hokkaido.

Speaking of wilful daughters...

Ana scanned the convoy's 'weapon stocks'. Several layers of special coatings lining the crates and cutting-edge electronic countermeasures would ensure that preliminary scans would show rows of small arms, perfect for an illegal arms dealer looking to make a quick buck, but not so quick that she wouldn't want to haggle over the price. What they really contained were a small force of Helix's elite jump troopers, as well as portable cooling units. Among them was Fareeha, Ana's own daughter. She'd been part of the Egyptian army, but joined Helix so she could one day join her mother at Oversight. After hearing what it was actually like from Ana and Amélie though, she decided to stay on, much to Ana's own silent relief.

Ana looked over the various ruins. She couldn't see Amélie with her naked eye, which wasn't surprising, considering how far up she was. Even so, she couldn't help but idly finger her comm unit, pushing the bud a little further into her ear. Not that she was expecting to hear much from her anymore, Ana thought sadly. Oh, she laughed when people told her jokes, and she was pleasant enough to be around, but she spent almost all her time at the base, her free time spent either reading or maintaining the Huntsman she'd brought from Oversight. Ana thought that the passage of time would heal Amélie's wounds, but it had been five years- surely that was enough?

The sound of an engine pulled her out of her reverie. Another convoy, comprising another jeep and two troop transports, drove up into the middle of the street. Ana pressed the comms in her ear. “Be careful Kimiko, I've got a bad feeling about this,” she whispered to herself; if she had her way, she'd have said it to Kimiko directly, but comm chatter had to be kept down. The convoy's size wasn't anything special, but the composition was another. As far as she knew, Kimiko's cover as a small-time arms dealer should have been holding, so why the need for so many troops? All she could hope for was that this was just their target's paranoia acting up.

Not that he seemed like it as he stepped from the jeep. Willem Van Der Vries was a spoiled son of the South African Prime Minister, who had suddenly come into a great deal of money, and was using it to start an arms smuggling empire. Part of the reason Ana and her team were here was to find out what he was doing in Sudan, and where his money came from. “Aloha!” he called out. “That's what they say back home, don't they?” he said, giving Kimiko an easy grin as he walked up to her. Unlike the soldiers coming out of the transports, heavily-armed and clad in full tactical body armour, Willem seemed to be content with a casual, all-white ensemble.

“We say _'ohayou'_ , actually,” Kimiko replied coldly, static from a nearby sandstorm crackling her voice as she crossed her arms. “I'd appreciate it if you don't get me confused with Hawaiians.”

“All right, all right,” Willem said easily, holding up two hands and giving Kimiko a wide grin. “You're a patriot, I can respect that, really I do,” he said. “ _Nippon banzai,_ and all that, eh?” he laughed. 

Just as usual, Ana looked to the side, wanting to reorient herself and the battlefield, when she saw a plume of green smoke coming from behind a dilapidated billboard, it surface bleached white. _That's a venom mine-_

She felt the air being cut in half next to her a split-second before she heard the crack of a rifle. Ana turned, and she saw a masked man crumple to the ground, a neat hole in his forehead, and a large crimson splash behind him which meant that the exit... was not quite so neat. A moment later, she heard over her comms: “We've been compromised,” Amélie said calmly.

*

All hell had broken loose below. As heavily-armed as Willem's goons were, the agents had the definite edge in training. Right as Amélie's rifle cracked, all of them went for cover. Kimiko herself dashed for Willem, and in a flurry of movement had him held in front of her as a human shield, one arm hooked around his neck, the other twisting Willem's gun out of his hands. “What is the meaning of this?” she hissed.

“You didn't think we had you made, did you?” Willem laughed hysterically as gunfire . “Give it up, Interpol bitch! I've got the men, I've got the guns! I've got friends in higher places than you can bel-”

He gasped, and Kimiko screamed in pain as she withdrew the hand she had around his neck, a crossbow bolt embedded in her wrist, as well as Willem's chest and head. Kimiko herself barely had any time to wonder what was going on before another bolt pierced her throat, sending her to the ground, unable to hear Ana screaming her name in her comms while gunfire was heard in the background. As they took cover behind one of Willem's transports, one of his goons turned to the woman who'd fired the bolts. “What did you do that for?! Who's going to pay us now?”

“I will,” she said, her red armour, silver hair and visor glinting in the desert sun. The three eyes of her visor, two over her actual eyes and a third over her forehead, focused on the goon. “With a 10% bonus for every confirmed agent kill, the Japanese woman included.”

The goon goggled at her, then grinned. “Sounds good to me!” he said, rushing out from behind the transport. With the covering fire from his mates, he thought he'd be able to rush the agents easily. Glancing to his right, he could see that he wasn't the only one with the idea- oh well, great minds thought alike and all that. Hoisting his assault rifle, he turned his attention back to where the agents were.

Just in time to see the tops blow off the crates that the agents had left in their lorry, and a hail of rockets coming straight for him.

*

As another of her assailants tumbled down the stairwell they had been coming up (and Ana had been shooting down), Ana heard the roar and explosions of rockets being fired. She threw down a grenade, leapt down through a hole in the floor, then out a boarded up window onto another nearby rooftop. The grenade exploded behind her, and Ana hoped that it would discourage further pursuit, at least for the next few seconds. She could see her daughter in her Raptora power armour, hovering in the air with the rest of her squad, raining missiles down on the enemy- and completely exposing themselves to enemy counter-fire. The armour was enough to protect against most small-arms fire, but larger weapons...

Peering through her scope, Ana could see one of them now, raising a rocket launcher to his shoulders. She felt her rifle kick as she downed the man, and managed to cycle her rifle quickly enough to down a second. Then she saw a third, emerging from behind one of the transports, and she swore as she desperately tried to cycle the rifle again. Right as the bolt clicked into place though, she saw the rocket emerge from the tube, a small puff of smoke the sole herald to the rocket launching at the jump troopers.

That, and the bright flash as it exploded right as it left the barrel, sending its holder flying backwards. “Skies are clear,” Amélie muttered over the comms. “Be advised- one has a crossbow.”

“Yeah, we've noticed!” Brassley screamed over the comms. “Eyes on? Anyone have eyes on the crossbow?!”

Ana's gaze swept the battlefield, her scope's internal compass fresh in her memory. Directly to her north, down the road, was a pillar of green smoke- she doubted Amélie was there anymore. In the middle of the road, the surviving agents sat huddled behind their bullet-ridden lorry, while above them the jump troopers jinked in mid-air and bounced themselves off walls to avoid the small arms fire coming from the remaining goons, who had ironically taken shelter in the building Amélie had initially taken. To the east was nothing but walls and rubble, a ruined patch of white where there was obviously no red to be seen. But to the west was an abandoned apartment building which had a perfect view of the battlefield, and as Ana raised her rifle, she saw a flash of red in the back-

And stopped as realization hit her in a flash of insight. For one, its position was perfect, but the building wasn't high enough to hide a sniper from the jump troopers, especially if they had to step up to the window to fire. The red also seemed unnaturally still- a distraction, perhaps? Which meant that the sniper would be heading towards the only building where having a silent weapon like the crossbow would allow them to pick off the agents and jump troopers at leisure-

She swung behind her just in time. The now-unarmoured woman fired at her, and Ana was uncomfortably reminded about how Amélie had saved her from one assassination attempt that day when the bolt flew past her, scratching a shallow furrow into her cheek. In these close quarters though, Ana felt like she had the advantage. Though she could see that the crossbow had an automatic magazine, it was still a large, unwieldy firearm in close quarters combat, unlike Ana's sturdier rifle, which was designed to be used as a staff (or alternatively, a mace) in close combat.

But for all her expertise and experience, age had caught up with Ana. Her blows and swings just weren't as quick as they used to be. She jabbed and fired, grazing the sniper in the shoulder, but the sniper simply dropped to the ground and swept Ana's leg from under her, sending the older Amari sprawling, her rifle bouncing away. “Too slow,” the sniper said, when something to her side caught her eye. She spun around lightning-fast and fired a bolt. “Hah!” she said triumphantly. “Got that b-”

There was a loud crack as a shot from a high-powered rifle cut the air, followed by a higher-pitched crack as the middle 'eye' of the sniper's headpiece shattered. Then came a crunching sound a fraction of a second after that, as the back of the sniper's head exploded outward. It was so quick, the shot barely transferred any of its force to the sniper, who stumbled backwards for a few feet to a standstill, when the body finally realized that it had died, and crumpled in on itself.

“Amélie here,” came her strained-sounding voice in Ana's ear. “Is the sniper dead?”

“Affirmative,” Ana said, breathing heavily herself, though for some reason Amélie sounded worse than she did. With a thrill of fear, she realized that the crossbow bolt must have hit home.

“ _Mérde_ ,” Amélie grunted, her voice a half-whisper as she evidently held back pain. “I only wanted to injure her.”

Ana ignored Amélie's statement, instead calling out for “Fareeha! Check on Amélie now- look to the rubble in the east!” The shot seemed to have come from that direction, at least from Ana's perspective. 

“Understood, Mom,” Fareeha replied. _'Mom'_ , Ana thought. _She really is her father's daughter,_ “I think I see her, Mom- oh no...” she said, and a fresh chill of horror ran down Ana's spine. “Medic!”

* * * * *

“Coming, coming!” Angela said, putting the stethoscope back on the woollen neck of the sweater she wore under her thick coat as she walked over to the patient who had called her. The thin tent walls did nothing to keep the cold air out, and barely did anything to keep the heat in. It didn't really bother Angela specifically- she'd had more than enough time to get used to the thin air and cold climes in Tibet- but the effect it was having on her patients, lying in rows alongside the sides of the tent, was really beginning to... _annoy_ her.

“It's all right, doctor,” the patient said, and Angela realized that she had been thinking aloud. “This is Siberia, we're all used to it.”

“Still though, I'm sorry,” Angela said, giving the old man an apologetic smile as she gave him a quick checkup and some minor painkillers. “I do wish I had more support,” she added in a quieter voice.

“Don't we all?” the old man replied, and Angela nodded as the sound of engines outside reminded her to get back to work. She looked around the tent, and saw a Shambali monk enter the tent just in time.

“Tekharta Pemba?” she said, moving over to the monk. “Could you handle matters in here, just for a few minutes?” she asked, the sound of engines getting louder.

“Of course!” the monk chirped, his high pitched voice and smaller stature making him seem like a teenager on the cusp of maturity. Angela strongly suspected that it was intentional on Pemba's part; people who might have had trouble talking to a monk who sounded like an old man tended to open up to the youthful-seeming Pemba. “It's actually why I came in, in fact- Zarya told me that she tried calling you to say she was coming, but you weren't answering,” he said, leading forward. “Somebody shut their phone off again, it seems,” he said, waggling his hand.

Angela reached into her coat, and sheepishly pulled out her phone. “In my defence, it wasn't off,” she said lamely. Stuffed as it was inside a thick pocket, over which Angela had closed an equally thick flap, it was obvious that she might as well have had turned it off. “”I'll... I'll go outside now,” she said, while Pemba snorted his laughter behind her.

The large lorry trundled over the the thickening snow. Despite the ravages brought along by climate change, it seemed that General Winter's fortress of Siberia remained as impregnably cold as ever. Considering the power of the warhead the Russians detonated on the Siberian omnium, Angela couldn't help but wonder if this was what was meant by 'nuclear winter'. Even with the massive tires on the lorry providing as much traction as possible, it still moved at only slightly better-than-walking-pace into the small tent village that the Siberia's Russian-appointed provisional government had allowed the monks to set up.

The Shambali weren't the only ones here, of course. To Angela's knowledge, there were at least fifteen other UN-sponsored medical expeditions in Siberia, as well as four or five other humanitarian missions from individual national or corporate sponsors. One of them was even from the Pan-Arabic Union, and Angela bemusedly wondered how they were doing in conditions so far removed from those of their homes. She could only hope that some of them had studied or lived around colder climes beforehand. 

Angela wondered how the Industrial Advisory Council, the _de facto_ rulers of the revitalized Russia would feel if the Arabs- or hell, anyone of them came back with less-than-stellar reports of how things were going in Siberia. About how they couldn't be bothered to provide anything other than the most token medical services to the people. Would they even care, as long as their bank accounts remained relatively intact? After all, these missions were saving them a fortune in medical and infrastructure spending. Oh, they pretended otherwise, that the newly-formed Siberian Union was 'a free nation with close ties to Russia', but a lot of supposed aid for Russia's 'sister nation' mysteriously never materialized,

The sound of the lorry's engines shutting off brought Angela back from her musings to reality. She returned Zarya's wave as the other woman leaned out of the driver's side window, before going to hug the aged, bespectacled man coming out the other side. “Professor Barisov!” she said happily, as the two of them hugged each other. “ _Mein Gott,_ it has been so long since I've seen you! What are you doing here?”

“Helping you, of course!” the old man said; since they were both wearing heavy coats, Angela could not feel the warmth of his embrace, but she could feel it in the tone of his voice. “I heard about what you were doing now, and since I was in the area, I thought I would help out. I made a few calls, asked for a few favours, and now I am here!” he said, and then pat her on the shoulder. “It is good to see you doing so well,” he added in softer tones, while Angela did her best to keep down the pang of sadness she suddenly felt. _Damn it,_ she thought to herself. _It has been five years- I should have gotten over... over_ everything _already._

Thankfully, Dr. Barisov didn't seem to notice as he led Angela behind the lorry, chattering happily away. “Winston and Miss Oxton are doing well, I'm sure you'll be happy to hear!” he said, and he wasn't wrong in the least. “Oh, you should see Miss Oxton, she's growing up so fast!”

Angela couldn't help but smile. “You're making it sound like she's your granddaughter,” she said, giving the professor a mischievous grin.

“Bah, considering I've never been married, can you blame me?” Barisov countered. “Besides, considering how much of my work has gone into the chronal accelerator, I think I'd be entitled to sending her a few sweets every Christmas, hm?”

“I cannot argue that point,” Angela said with complete honesty; While medicine came almost naturally to her, the endless theorems, sheer speculation and uncertainty involved in both theoretical and quantum physics made her head spin. Without the Professor's expertise on the topics, Angela doubted that the accelerator would be as effective as it was. “Welcome back, Zenyatta!” she said, giving a wave to the omnic stepping out the back of the lorry. “Do you need any help?”

“It would be appreciated, yes,” Zenyatta said, giving both Angela and Barisov a bow which they returned. “If you will help me receive this...”

Standing side-by-side, the three of them prepared to take the massive heater that Zarya was pushing out at them. Holding it up in her arms, Angela felt it wasn't as heavy as it seemed- maybe Zarya was taking the brunt of the weight. That said, it wasn't light by any means; Professor Barisov certainly seemed to be straining a little, even as a passing monk decided to spontaneously lend a hand. Its large size certainly made hauling it a multiple-person job, and the fact that they had one for every tent made the project seem all that more daunting. “Forgive me, Zarya,” Zenyatta said, his calm voice belying the strain his arm servos were under. “But I seem to have noticed that all our Russian-made equipment is... a little inconvenient to transport by hand,” he said diplomatically. “Is this all strictly necessary?”

“It's Russian engineering-” Barisov began, when Zarya interrupted.

“ _Slavic_ engineering,” she proclaimed loudly. “We build machines big and tough, just like our people! This heater might be big and massive, but it will last until Siberia-” she said, then stopped herself. “It will last form a long time,” she said, after clearing her throat. “Sorry, Professor. For interrupting you, and... and for that little outburst.”

“Don't worry, I understand,” Barisov said, nodding. “I can certainly see why you wouldn't like Russians- and you were right,” he added. “This heater will last until Siberia is free again, and for far longer than that!” he laughed, his voice and chest swelling with the same pride that Zarya had just displayed. “Ah, none of you will tell NARKOM I said that, will you?” he asked Angela, fear making his face instantly showing every sign of his age.

“Don't worry, professor,” Angela replied, trying not to show how despairing it was for her to see her old friend live in fear of the Commissariat that formed Russia's internal security. “You're among friends.”

He nodded happily, and the two of them spent a few hours in pleasant conversation while they set up the heaters together. It made the long and somewhat tedious setup pass a little quicker, and he celebrated along with Angela, the monks and their patients when the inside of the tents began to finally heat up to tolerable temperatures. By the time they had all the tents set up, Angela, Zarya, Zenyatta and Barisov were able to catch the exact moment when the sun hit the mid-point of the horizon.

It was, if not a perfect moment, one that came pretty close. Which was why Angela wasn't surprised when it was ruined barely half an hour later, when the sound of distant helicopter rotors disturbed the peace of the camp. As began to land, the lights around the camp illuminated the insignia on its side, which wasn't that of the Russian Army, or even of Russia, but of their puppet government. The cogs began turning in Angela's mind...

“You there!” a man in Russian military uniform yelled as he got out of the helicopter. The camp's lights glinted off the silver in his severely-cut hair, and combined with his goatee and gloves, Angela couldn't help but wonder if he was actually _trying_ to look evil. The uniform was completely unadorned save for a holstered pistol at the man's side, but the man's bearing and piercing stare spoke of high rank. The pair of heavily-armed escorts who stepped off the helicopter after him also served to remind the Shambali about who was in charge. “I am-” he began, and then cleared his throat. “My name is Demichev,” he said slowly and deliberately, somehow managing to proclaim his name in a harsh whisper. “And I am here to inform you that you have a week to pack up and leave.”

“What?” Zenyatta replied, as the various gathered monks glanced at each other, disconcerted. “But we have barely been here that long! We have barely begun to help these people!”

“That does not matter,” Demichev said, holding up a hand as if to physically stop Zenyatta's complaints. “By next week, you and the other UN missions will leave Siberia. Do not worry for your charges,” he said, indicating the tents. “The Russian government will send them more aid in the coming months- personnel, medicine and other resources,” he said dismissively.

“Can you give us anything more specific?” Angela asked, a picture beginning to form in her mind.

“Bah, that is not my job,” Demichev said, waving off her question. “Talk to the bureaucrats in Moscow, they will explain everything. I am just a soldier doing my job,” he said. Before he could say anything else, Zarya stepped forward.

“Really? 'Your job'?” she asked, hands clenched into fists. “I suppose it is your job to see Siberians dead, isn't it?”

“Zarya, please,” Zenyatta replied, but it was too late- Demichev responded.

“That kind of talk is seditious,” Demichev replied smugly. “It would be much harder to get a travel visa if that got out, especially in these troubled times, when Siberia and Russia are taking such pains to strengthen their ties,” he added, his smile seeming to grow wider with every syllable. “The... _fallout_ of your words might also impact your friends,” he added, and Zarya trembled like a volcano about to erupt with the reminder of the Russian missile. “Isn't that right, Professor Barisov?” he said, looking over to the side where the Professor had been trying to hide behind Zarya. “I'm sure that NARKOM would-”

“You're not going to do anything,” Angela interrupted.

Demichev looked at her, temporarily discombobulated. “What did you say?”

“I said you're not going to do anything,” Angela said. “I don't know how long you have spent flying across Siberia, warning us off, but it is not going to work. You've squeezed Siberia tightly enough, there's nothing Russia can gain by withholding the aid the Siberian people need.” Her eyes narrowed. “But then again, you're not really here for Russia, are you? Even if it doesn't work, there is a lot of power and prestige an officer can gain by simply suggesting a way to do so.”

There was a moment of silence while Angela and Demichev held each others' gazes. “That is a very interesting theory, Doctor...”

“My name isn't important,” Angela replied. “Just like you will be, if you keep on doing what you're doing.”

Demichev's eyes goggled, but he rallied quickly. “Such harsh words, Doctor,” he said, giving her a crooked (in more ways than one) grin. “It doesn't suit your pretty mouth,” he said, looming over Angela. 

“And kissing your _Arsch_ is?” Angela asked, reverting to German for a moment. People kept on saying that German was the best language to swear in; Angela didn't necessarily agree, but the impact the harsher word had on Demichev was palpable. 

“You insolent- you cannot talk to me like that!” Demichev sputtered.

“Why not?” Angela replied, her voice still calm, her hands still in her pockets. “Because I'm a foreigner? I'm sure that will sit well with Russia's European and Middle Eastern business partners. Is it because I work with omnics? I wasn't aware that Russia had such an easy time making peace with Siberia's omnics that you can so easily anger them again. Or... is it because I'm a woman? What will the world think of that, I wonder? What will Miss Volskaya? She is the head of the Industrial Council, is she not?”

Angela leaned forward, and it was with some satisfaction she saw the general back off a little. “Tell me, General,” she said. The way the man's eyes opened wide, the way he gasped, told Angela that she had struck the bullseye. “What is more likely to happen? That the Industrial Council gets rid of our mission, endangering their position in the eyes of the oligarchs, the people of Russia and their economic partners all over the world? Or will they simply get rid of a general who 'overstepped his bounds' to keep the peace?” 

She then made a show of considering a moment. “Of course, I'm sure you can always arrange a little 'accident' for us to suffer on the way back to Tibet, but we are here under UN auspices. They will demand an investigation, which an oh-so remorseful Russian government will take up with all haste and care. After all, I'm sure you've made a lot of friends on your way to the top, haven't you?” she said, smiling sweetly. “Maybe you've made some new friends recently as well,” she said, nodding to the helicopter. “I doubt a General of the Russian Army would travel in a helicopter bearing Siberian iconography- unless he didn't want to be seen. Or at least, seen acting in an official capacity. Now, why would that be...?”

Truth be told, Angela hadn't the faintest idea- but she could guess. Part of what made the Russian occupation semi-tolerable was the polite fiction that Siberia was semi-autonomous, and that as long as the oligarchs back in Moscow got their pockets lined, they would leave Siberia alone. Having a Russian general openly using Siberian equipment could reignite revolutionary spirits. It was also possible that Demichev might have had Siberian officials in his pocket or vice versa; it didn't matter, it would also end in revolution. Demichev might also just have had enemies on the Industrial Council thanks to the endless politics associated with it, and the helicopter was simply cover for his activities.

In the end, it didn't matter if Angela knew his reasons, as long as Demichev did. He trembled for a moment, his glare burning into Angela, but her own gaze held steady. In the end, he was the first to break. “One month,” he growled. “You will have until-”

“Christmas,” Angela countered, but to her well-concealed surprise, he laughed in response.

“Don't think of trying to negotiate for more time than I will graciously give you,” Demichev snarled. “You were right, your leaving after a week would suit _my_ purposes better, but any longer than the month I give, and it won't be just my toes you will step on.” He turned back to his guards. “Come on, you two,” he said, before turning back to Angela. “We can still salvage this- after all, there are other camps.”

The helicopter had barely got off the ground before Zarya seized Angela in a bear hug, squeezing the breath out of the doctor. “Did you see the look on that _hui_ 's face?” she said. “I'm surprised the helicopter hasn't exploded in mid-air!” she said, looking up at the retreating helicopter with savage glee. “I doubt we'll see him around ever again!”

“Though I do worry about what Demichev may do to get back at you,” Barisov said, looking at the helicopter with apprehension. “He might not be able to respond directly, but I'm sure he as actual friends, or at least allies he can call on.”

“I'll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Angela said, walking back to the tent. “Right now, there are people who need our help-”

* * * * *

“-and we are alone in a position to give it to them,” Commander Jack Morrison finished, looking at Director Petras, sitting across from him at the other end of the briefing table.

They weren't actually talking face-to-face, of course. Director Petras's hologram was smaller than the one that use to hover above the old briefing table, and Jack preferred it this way. Then again, he doubted he was unique in not wanting to be literally looked down on. “A pretty speech,” Petras said, then sighed. “Fine, fine, I'll try talk to the Security Council,” he said. “Honestly, after that mess in Bir Tawil last week, Interpol's not looking too good, so we might definitely be able to transfer some funds there,” he mused. “You should've seen the South African PM tear the UN a new one over it. Considering he lost his son though, I can't blame him. We lost someone there too, didn't we?”

“That's right,” Jack said sadly. “Gina Cressy, a.k.a. Huntress, one of our newest recruits. We lost her before Bir Tawil though; she's a good sniper, but infiltration wasn't her strong suit,” Jack lied. “Specialist Somb- I mean, Specialist Colomar did a good job keeping her involvement a secret, I have to admit,” he said. “Gave her a small bonus for it.”

“That's another matter I wanted to discuss with you, Jack,” Petras said. “All this cloak-and-dagger stuff... look, I'm not going to argue its effectiveness. I've seen the reports from Numbani and Iraq, given them to the Security Council... but I'm not entirely comfortable with it. Assassinations, false flag operations- it feels like we're too much like a terror organization ourselves.”

Jack mentally rolled his eyes, but kept his gaze steady when talking to the Director. “Like I've told you before sir, it's no different than what normal law enforcement and intelligence agencies do,” he said. “We keep things quiet, people sleep soundly in their beds, politicians get elected. We _have_ passed on information to more local agencies if it makes our allies look good and feel better, after all.”

“Yes, and built up quite a nest egg in the process, after all,” Petras replied dryly. “Calm down, Jack, I'm not accusing you of anything,” he said, when Jack bristled, not that he could help himself. “I've seen the expense reports. You're doing a great job with what you have. I just prefer the more straight-up fights Commander Reyes looked for,” he said, then sighed. “Guess I'm just getting old.”

“We all are, sir,” Jack said, doing his best to look regretful with the mention of his friend. Not that he didn't miss Gabe, he did, dearly, but if Moira's experiments bore the fruit she promised... “That said, our current approach does help stop a lot of major crimes before they happen. If it helps, sir, I do plan to go louder with Oversight's approach once we get the additional funding.” He leaned forward. “They say that it's not the severity of punishment that deters crime, but its certainly, and I can certainly agree with that. However, a little severity would certainly help- after all, they also say that sparing the rod spoils the kid.”

Petras laughed, and picked up a cup from somewhere off-'screen'. “I'll drink to that!” he said. “All right, Jack, I'll go submit your proposal to the Council, maybe remind them about Numbani and Iraq. If you think it'd help, get someone to punch up your Bir Tawil report as well. I could try get the Council's sympathy. At the very least, with things heating up between China and Japan, it'd be an extra kick in the ass about watching one's borders,” he said. “Anything else I should know about?”

“Not at the moment, sir,” Jack replied, shrugging.

“All right. Best of luck back in Zurich,” the Director said. “Petras out.”

Jack leaned back and took a deep breath. That went much better than he'd expected, he thought as he picked up his personal holopad and rose to walk to the door. He looked down at the reports coming in from the bots the IT department had assembled to monitor and summarize the news from China and Japan. Reading between the lines, he could see that various reports of sabotage, border incursions and other targeted criminal acts were the result of a small team or teams working in unison. 

Jack grunted quietly in approval; as proud as the Shimadas were when Jack (in the guise of his own offended 'master') contacted them after the attack on Oversight HQ, they were as reliable as ever, especially once Jack gave them a few insignificant concessions on his part. Not that he wouldn't have his revenge on them in the end, of course- spare the rod and all that. He just had to think of one that they weren't already anticipating, or one that they wouldn't be able to stop. Of course, with additional funds came additional options...

Jack was so lost in his reverie that it took him a while to notice the message notification flashing in the top corner of his holopad, as well as the beeping from his comms. “This is Commander Morrison,” he said. Sometimes he wondered when calling himself 'Commander' instead of 'Acting Commander' stopped sounding to wrong to his senses. He couldn't pinpoint an exact moment in the half-decade before when it happened, only that it did. Now he wrestled with how right that was starting to sound to him. He didn't want to give up hope on Gabe, but...

“Commander,” Moira said, her contralto voice somehow sounding breathier- she was excited. “You might want to come down to Lab G for-”

“I'm on my way,” Jack interrupted, his pace already beginning to pick up with every step, to the point where Jack nearly ran past his own office. The interior was a great deal cleaner than it had been after the attack, and was virtually identical to the sterile, spartan environment that it had before- with one glaring exception. The doors of the private lift in the side of the room was already beginning to open when Jack entered his office, motion and ID sensors having detected Jack's approach.

As the doors closed in front of him, Jack couldn't help but smile.

*

When he opened his eyes, his first thought was that he'd gone blind. After a few moments of panic, his eyes began to adjust, and he was able to make out shapes in the darkness. The darkness... that was what surrounded him. He wasn't blind- at least, not completely. Now _there_ was a comforting thought. That said, things also looked a little blurry, and he felt cold all over and strangely light-headed, like he was float-

His eyes bulged open then, and he thrust his hands through the liquid he was suspended in, only for his hands to meet a solid, clear surface. He flailed around for a little more when he realized he wasn't drowning, that there was an airtight mask affixed over his nose and mouth cycling breathable air. He gingerly touched the parts where they met his skin, feeling his way in the darkness. As far as he could tell, there was some kind of sealant there. It felt slightly soft and spongy, as if it had been applied recently. Or maybe the fluid he was suspended in softened it; that was certainly the case with some sealants, if he recalled-

Wait, how did he recall that? Where did he pick that piece of information up? And where was he, come to think of it? 

_Who_ was he?

There was a bright flash of light in front of him. He instinctively raised his muscular arms (were they always that way?) to block it out, it hurt his eyes so much. His arms ached slightly with the effort, despite the liquid he was in supporting his weight. It was with a strange mixture of relief and trepidation that he lowered them, and faced the two shadowy figures in front of him. That said, once his eyes adjusted further, he found that he could see them just fine. 

First was a man in a dark greatcoat- and the man was sure the coat was actually black, that it wasn't the darkness making it seem that way. Greatcoat was an older man, his hair now gone to grey, but he also had the stature and poise of a much younger bodybuilder. The second was a woman in a white lab coat, her red hair shining brilliantly in the light streaming in from behind her. She didn't seem to be very old herself, though she did have an androgynous look that suited her well. The awoken man thought that she looked younger than she should have, but he'd be damned if he could explain why he felt like that.

More to the point, the way they stared at him was unsettling, to say the least. The woman looked at him with a mixture of pride and what the man thought of as hunger, while the other man seemed more... speculative. “Impressive, I'll admit,” he said at last.

“Oh, you have no idea,” the woman said, turning to the other man. “As you can see,” she said, gesturing to the man in the tank, “I've made the improvements you asked for, and the subject has taken to them much better than I had anticipated.” She hissed through her teeth. “Unfortunately, I admit I wasn't able to fix the problem with the nanotech infusions,” she said, looking at the man in the tank, who instinctively recoiled. “He will most likely be in pain for the rest of his life,” she shrugged, and the man didn't know what scared him more- her words, or the casual air with which she spoke them. “It won't be constant, don't worry,” she said, as if that made it better. “Just an episode now and then, nothing to worry about.”

 _I beg to differ,_ the man thought.

“Can he hear us?” Greatcoat asked. “Can you hear us?” he said, tapping on the glass.

The man wondered if he should respond; a voice at the back of his mind told him not to trust the man, that Greatcoat was dangerous. But there was so much the man in the tank had to know... so he nodded. His mouth opened and closed, long-unused vocal cords straining with the effort. He clenched his eyes, willing the words to come forth.

“Is he trying to talk?” Greatcoat said. “ _Can_ he talk?”

The woman again. “I... I'm not sure,” she admitted. “There was some damage to his brain. The nanotech solution should have repaired most, if not all of the damage, but-”

“But? But what? Why is this the first time I'm hearing of this, Moira?” the man growled. “Are you telling me that after all the time and effort we've taken to bring him back, he can't even-”

“Who...” came a voice distorted by static.

There was silence as the man in the tank summoned the effort to try again. “My God...” Greatcoat said.

The woman snorted. “Commander, whether or not God exists, I can assure you He didn't have anything to do with this,” she said.

By now, the man in the tank had recovered enough to finish his question. “Who... am... I...?” he asked, the words coming easier with each syllable, yet sounding so alien, so strange, to his ears.

Greatcoat was silent a moment, then straightened up. “Years ago, during the Omnic crisis, a Deadlock operative named Gabriel Reyes single-handedly took down an entire platoon of combat omnics using nothing more than his signature shotguns. His squad, encouraged by his best friend Jack Morrison, decided to give him the nickname to commemorate their newest angel of death.” Greatcoat leaned back in towards the tank. “Tell me, does any of that sound familiar to you?”

The man in the tank wracked his mind. “I... I'm sorry,” he said. “I can't remember anything like that.”

Greatcoat stared at the man for a few moments, the woman (Moira, the man recalled) glancing uncertainly between the two of them, before Greatcoat took a deep breath and sighed. “Whoever you were before, it does not matter.” His eyes fixed the man in the tank's, like those of a snake right before it lunged for an unfortunate rat. “From now on, your name is Reaper.”


	2. New Faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads-up; two characters in this chapter have unusual methods of speaking. The first one will be a recurring character, the second very minor, and his speech patterns in this chapter are meant to be irritating. That being said, I'm fully aware that I might have gone overboard with this- if that's the case, please inform me so that I can improve your reading experience. Thanks!

Lena Oxton cycled her pistols, the chronal projectiles reloading themselves back into the guns as she cursed the path the thief had taken through the alleys. She hadn't been shooting to kill or even wound, but it was as if the man hadn't even noticed the shots churning up the soil at his feet. He'd managed to run into the busy streets of Mumbai, packed even at this time of night, which meant that warning shots weren't an option anymore. She briefly considered running up the side of a nearby building and following him from above, but the tangled massed of wires that criss-crossed the upper levels of the outer city would've made it even harder to track him. The massive billboards that topped any roof that was visible through the web would've blocked her vision in turn.

And so Lena settled for running after the man in the streets. One of the things that had surprised Lena when she visited India was how dense it was; she'd thought the Liberation Day parades back in the Union of Britain were bad, but those were everyday Mumbai crowds, even here, in the outer edges of the city. That said, while the thief was more adept than Lena at navigating the crowd, she was faster, younger and more agile, and for every civilian thrown in her way, for every overturned roadside stall or cart, Lena simply leaped over. Soon, despite the trail of spoiled goods and curses thrown at them in both Hindi and English, Lena soon found herself back in a straight-up chase back through Mumbai's alleys. 

“Give it up!” she cried out, breathing heavily, though she took some comfort in the thief's worse shape. The man had slipped in a puddle, sending him sprawling in the alleyway while curious onlookers peered out their windows, snatches of Indian holos coming from behind them. “Right then, look- you hand over that hard disk, and I'll let you go, yeah? I'll pretend I'd never even seen you,” she said, giving him the most comforting smile she could manage under the circumstances.

The thief looked at her as he stumbled to his feet. “You want this? You want this, huh?” the Indian man said, his grey hair glinting in the dim illumination of the few lights in the alleyway as he held up the small, weatherproof box he held. “Then go on, shoot me!” he cried out, spreading his arms as he slowly backed away. “Because that is the only way Vishkar's getting this back.”

“I'm not working for Vishkar,” Lena said slowly, edging forward, her pistols drawn, when her comms crackled.

“You're taking too long,” her partner said, his voice as deep and cold as the grave.

“Mate, I've got this!” Lena replied, one hand on the comms. “J- just sit back and relax, all right?” she said, hoping the lack of a reply was a good thing.

The thief snorted bitterly. “Should have known you had a partner,” he said. “And no, _you_ might not be working for Vishkar, but Oversight certainly is!” He shook his head. “No... no, you're not getting this back,” he said, before his face and voice softened. “Look, I can see you want to do the right thing,” he said. “You know it is wrong to keep secrets from the people, especially ones like these,” he said, edging towards a door leading into a building. “But there are still honest policemen, honest lawyers here in Mumbai,” he pleaded. “I beg you, just let me get this to them,” he said. “People have died because Vishkar decided it wasn't rich enough- don't let their deaths be in vain.”

Lena held her gun steady for a few more moments- then fired.

Right above the man's head.

She smiled at him then, and nodded. “You're right,” she said quietly. “Go on sir, make the bastards pay.”

The man's eyes opened wide, then his smile followed. He placed his hands together, and bowed deeply. “Thank you,” he said, his voice deep and husky with tears. He opened the building's side door, and disappeared through it, while Lena placed a hand to her forehead and sighed, wondering how she was going to report this-

Gasps and terrified swearing caused her to turn around, and then wish she hadn't. Reaper literally emerged from the shadows, a cloud of black smoke heralding his arrival. From a purely technical point of view, Lena knew she didn't have a reason to be afraid. The man's body was held together by nanomachines, which he could literally dissolve into for short periods of time. That didn't stop him from being utterly terrifying.

“You let him go,” said the sepulchral voice coming from the skull mask. Lena had stifled a laugh when she first saw it the previous week, and made a few jokes around the base about it. Now that she saw it looming over her in the dark, it didn't seem quite as amusing anymore. “Why?”

Lena took a deep breath, and did her best to look Reaper in the empty eye sockets. “B-because it was th-the right thing t-to do,” she said with what little defiance she could muster.

Reaper didn't answer her at first, shifting his glance between her and the door the thief left through. His gaze finally rested on her, though, and Lena could swear his eyes _narrowed_. “The right thing to do...” he said sarcastically. “You actually believe that, don't you?”

Despite the fear she felt, Lena nodded. “Y-yes,” she said, then her voice became firmer, stronger. “Because it is. Because it's true, I mean,” she said, internally cursing herself for screwing up there.

Not that Reaper seemed to mind. “If you say so,” he said, looking back at the door. There was a low, rumbling sound, but it took seeing Reaper's shoulder's ripple (literally, he was still only semi-solid) for Lena to realize that Reaper was laughing. “Idealism here and now, of all times and places- you surprise me, Oxton.”

“I do?” Lena asked, raising an eyebrow.

A moment of silence. “When we get back to base, I want you to promise me one thing,” he suddenly said.

“Yeah, what's that?” Lena asked.

“Wake up.”

*

“Huh? Wussat?” Lena mumbled, her bleary eyes adjusting to the light as she blinked the blurriness away.

“I said wake up, love,” Emily said, kissing Lena on the cheek. “You'll be late for work,” she said, patting Lena on the cheek.

And so, despite every muscle in her body protesting the motion, Lena sat up, yawning all the while. She was still dressed in her jumpsuit, which she had kept on when she collapsed into bed the previous night (or earlier that morning, she couldn't really remember). “Bloody hell, Em, what time is it?” she asked, stretching. The room she lived in now was larger than the one she had when she first joined, larger even than the apartment the government issued her back in the good ol' Union of Britain. It felt spacious, even now that she was married.

“Eight thirty- I thought I'd let you sleep in,” Emily said, buttoning her suit jacket and smoothing out her trousers. “Don't worry, I cleared it up with Commander Morrison, and he said it was all right,” she said, smoothing out her jacket. “How do I look?”

“You look wonderful, love,” Lena said, stepping off the bed and giving her wife a quick kiss.

“Thanks,” Emily said, smiling. “We've got visitors from VHI coming today, and I'm going to be part of the 'negotiation team',” she said, fingerquoting. “Oh, and before I forget, I brought you some breakfast from the canteen,” she said, pointing at a small paper bag and thermos combo on a table in their living room.

“Negotiating team, eh?” Lena asked. “That's, ah... that's good, Em!” Lena said, trying her damnedest to smile as genuinely as she could. “Sounds like you're moving up the the world!”

Emily wasn't fooled for one moment. “Sweetheart, don't worry,” she said, as she came over and sat beside Lena, placing a hand on Lena's hip. “I'm not going to do anything cloak and dagger-”

 _Yet,_ Lena thought.

“-I'm just going to sit in the back, listen in, take notes, collate it with what we know about VHI, then give a report straight to Commander Morrison,” she said, pausing slightly between each step. “See? Nothing dangerous at all. It's not as if they'll even be in the same room with us!” she laughed. “It's a holoconference, nothing to worry about at all.”

“Yeah, I suppose so,” Lena replied, drawing Emily close. “I just... I just wonder if I'll wake up one day to find you leaving for Canada or something,” she said softly, resting her head on Emily's shoulder. She held up a hand right after that. “Yes, I know it's irrational. Yes, I know you were promoted to Intelligence day last week. And yes, I do know that you're not the ones Oversight uses for field missions. Still doesn't stop me worrying though.”

“I don't know, I like it,” Emily said, but her smile gave way to a more serious expression. “But... if you're serious about wanting me to leave-”

“No, no!” Lena said, starting a little. “Not at all, sweetheart! You got promoted nice and fair, and I'm not going to take that from you,” she said, her voice softening. “It's just... I just worry easily, yeah? I'll get over it, no problem.”

Emily laughed a little as she held Lena tighter. “You don't have to, Lena,” she said. “It's nice knowing you'll be looking out for me,” she added, then laughed. “That'll be something to hold over the Commander's head, aye? 'Be nice to me, or Tracer'll come after you'! Oh, there's an angle I can work,” she said, giving Lena a devious grin.

“You have my permission to work all the angles you want,” Lena laughed, doing her best to hide the twisting of her gut. She'd wondered why Jack had personally selected Emily to work in Intelligence, and Emily had just indirectly answered her. After all, Jack had promoted Emily to Intelligence officer- a few more forms, and she could be a field agent, with all that implied. 

And there wouldn't be a damned thing Lena could do to stop him. 

“Not now, Lena!” Emily laughed again, and Lena sighed inwardly with relief- it seemed she had managed to fool Emily, as much as it hurt to do so. “We've got work to get to!” she added, tweaking Lena's nose a little. 

“Fair enough, fair enough,” Lena replied, before she turned to kiss Emily again. “Seems like I'm worrying for nothing, then,” she said, resting her head on Emily's shoulder. “Forgive me?”

“Oh, I don't know... you've just become so _stifling_ lately,” Emily teased. “But I suppose I might forgive you if you cook dinner tonight? I mean, if you come back early or don't have any other missions planned? Oh, and by 'cook', I mean 'order something',” she grinned, though there was a quiet firmness to her voice. “I still remember what happened the last time- and so does everyone else in this wing,” she said, tweaking Lena's nose.

“Three course home-cooked meal with dessert, right,” Lena laughed, poking Emily in the stomach and making her squeal. “So.. VHI, that's Volskaya Heavy Industries, innit?” Lena asked, pouring herself a cup of tea. If she were being perfectly honest, she was tired enough that she'd accept coffee, but it was Emily's thought that counted. “What's the old man doing talking to them?” she added, more to herself than to Emily.

Emily shrugged as she picked up her suitcase from the table. “I can't tell you that- I'd be an awful Intelligence officer if I did that,” she said, but she was grinning as she continued. “I certainly can't tell you that the Commander's expanding a little more now that Oversight's got more funding, or that he's personally invited VHI over other tenders,” she said.

Lena wasn't sure about that. On one hand, she was automatically suspicious of anything the Commander had a personal hand in- but on the other, he did have an eye for skill. For all she knew, this might be a perfectly normal procurement meeting. And while Lena hated to put herself in Jack's shoes, she could certainly see that a low-key observation job was a practical way to use Emily, while at the same time keeping her close enough to remind Lena who was really in charge.

Her thoughts were interrupted when her comm began beeping, making her jump a little; she'd honestly forgotten she had left it in. “Specialist Oxton speaking,” she said, pressing her earpiece.

“Oxton,” she heard Jack growl, loud and clear. “My office. _**Now.**_ ”

“Right sir, I'll be there in a minute,” she said, then gave Emily as nonchalant a shrug as she could manage. “Sorry, Em, but it looks like that 'sleeping in' you've cleared with the Commander? Yeah, it's rescinded. Don't worry,” she said, in response to Emily's suddenly worried look. “This _is_ Commander Morrison we're talking about- anything past seven is sleeping in for him, you should know that, Miss Intelligence Officer,” she teased. “Now,” she said, taking one last swig of tea before walking over to Emily and giving her one last kiss, “I think it's time we both get to work, yeah?” 

They said their goodbyes, Emily spraying Lena with some perfume and stuffing a mint into her mouth so she didn't completely stink when she went to see Jack, then went their separate ways. Then as soon as as soon as Emily was out of sight and earshot, Lena sprinted for Jack's office- no sense in worrying her, after all. As she did so, expertly dodging any and all obstacles in her way, she recalled what Reaper actually said the night before.

_“When we get back to base, I want you to promise me one thing,” he suddenly said._

_“Yeah, what's that?” Lena asked._

_“Let me do the talking.”_

“Speak of the devil,” she muttered to herself when she saw a shadow float in front of her, then materialize itself into Reaper in the passage she was taking to Jack's office mere seconds after she entered the corridor. “Good morning, Reaper!” she said, slowing down to walk at his side, while putting on the most cheerful smile she could muster.

He stared at her for a second. “Did you think you could fool me with that false smile?”

“Worth a try, I suppose,” Lena replied, then sighed. “Just trying to stay calm,” she said quietly.

“Jack will not bite,” Reaper said as the door began to loom ahead of them, an oncoming herald of doom as far as Lena was concerned. Maybe worse, because she was actively heading towards it. 

“First time for everything,” Lena quipped, before leaning in and whispering in a more serious tone, “Ah, just so you know, he prefers 'Commander' or 'Commander Morrison'.”

Pausing for a moment at Jack's door, Reaper leaned in as well. “Yes, I know,” he said, before knocking.

The door hissed open, and the two of them entered to see Jack glowering at them, his eyes ablaze with fury. To Lena's surprise, she saw Dr. O'Deorain standing at silent attention behind Jack as he held up his holopad. “Seems like in India, they've still got newspapers, which is why it's taken me until this goddamn morning to see _this_ ,” he said, throwing the pad to Lena, who managed to catch it in time. Lena wasn't able to read the Hindi on most of the headlines, but one in English managed to catch her eye.

**_VISHKAR IMPLICATED IN JOURNALISTS' MURDERS_ ** _  
India Times reporter was one of many on the trail of corporate misconduct_

Jack rubbed his forehead. “And now I've got Vishkar riding my ass and wondering why the hell my agents weren't able to do their damned jobs,” he said. “Do you know how much we rely on their technology? Their hard light projectors and force field generators? Now they're threatening to 'renegotiate' all their contracts- not just with us, but our partners as well because of this scandal!” He slammed his palms on the table. “Damn it, thanks to you two I'm going to be spending the rest of next week explaining to a quarter of the world's leaders and half the Forbes 500 list why their security budgets are going to explode,” he snarled. “Who the hell is responsible for this?”

Lena took a deep breath, doing her best to stare straight ahead and not glance to her side. _All right, Reaper,_ she thought, _this is your cha-_

“Specialist Oxton is to blame, sir,” Reaper said, and Lena gasped, switching her gaze to Reaper so quickly she gave herself a minor case of whiplash. “She lost track of the thief in the Mumbai streets when he ran into a crowd.”

“I see, Isee,” Jack said, nodding slowly while Lena tried to gasp out an excuse, only stopping when Jack held up his hand. “And what about you, Reaper? I mean, I've been to Mumbai a few times, I guess I can understand it if Lena can't press her way through the crowd. There's only so much she can do with the accelerator,” he said, giving Lena a 'calm down' gesture with his hand. “But here's the thing,” he said with faux reasonableness as he rose from his table and walked up to Reaper. “You don't have to worry about that, do you?”

“That would be correct,” Reaper said. “However-”

“No excuses!” Jack roared. “I don't want to hear any excuses! Not from you! You don't _deserve_ to give me excuses! You _cannot_ give me excuses, Reaper!” he said, jabbing his finger in the face of an impassive Reaper, or so Lena thought. For all she knew the man(?) was crying like a baby behind the skull mask. She certainly hoped so, for trying to throw her under the bus like that. 

Then again, why make up a story-

Jack's tirade was interrupted when Doctor. O'Deorain placed a hand on his shoulder. He breathed heavily for a few moments, then nodded again, evidently taking the time to re-compose himself. “You,” he said, pointing at Lena as he struggled to get his breath under control, “an extra hour's obstacle and crowd navigation training every day for a month. Mission or missions come up, that time gets carried over, got it?” he said, and Lena nodded frantically, grateful (and not a little surprised) for getting out of it so easily. “And _you,_ ” he said, turning to Reaper, the fires beginning to blaze in his eyes again, “four hours' general training every-”

There was the sound of a throat being cleared, and Jack spun around to face the doctor. “Moira,” he said, obviously trying to keep his voice steady. “Is there something you want to share with the class?”

“I don't think the extra strain on- on Reaper would be wise, Commander,” she said, seemingly unperturbed by Jack's anger, instead standing by with her arms behind her back as calmly as ever. “That said, I believe an extra hour of training and another of extra physical therapy for at least another month or two would prove more useful.”

Jack glowered at her for a second, then turned back to Reaper. “You said 'at least' month or two, hm? Let's make it three, or whenever the UN gets off my back, or when we see Satan skate to work, whichever comes sooner,” he said, looking Reaper in the eye sockets. “Is that acceptable to you?”

“Yes, sir,” Reaper said, a little quieter than before.

“Good. Dismissed,” Jack said, waving them off. “Your extra hours start tomorrow, once I've sorted the damned paperwork out,” he added, shaking his head as he sat back down. “Get back to your duties.”

Lena felt that she would have qualified for sainthood for having the patience for waiting until she was out of earshot to give Reaper hell. “You bastard!” she hissed. “You set me-”

“He was looking for someone to blame, not someone to believe,” Reaper said immediately. “He wouldn't have believed either of us if you tried to lie,” he said, jabbing a finger at Lena, “and telling the truth would have made us both targets. By pointing the finger at you, I made myself look guilty-or at least, guiltier- if for nothing else than to try shift my responsibility for the failure onto you,” he explained. “Any non-verbal cues you gave Jack during his response would have also made it look like you were afraid of his judgement or betrayed by my actions, not lying,” he said. “Though I admit, that last part was a gamble.”

Lena stopped in her tracks, and it took a few seconds along with a raised eyebrow before she could formulate a response. “You're telling me- hold on- you were actually trying to save my arse? By having Jack kick it? Not want to kick it? Hang on, I'm confused.”

Reaper suddenly leaned in, the motion much faster than Lena anticipated. He hung over her, dark and silent, until- “Good.”

Another moment of silence, then he suddenly shifted back into a cloud, drifting away at high speeds to the test chambers. “Oi!” Lena cried out, running after him. “Get back here, you arse!”

*

Jack looked up at Moira. “So, what do you think?” he asked, turning in his seat.

Moira sighed and shrugged. “What do you expect me to say? As far as I can see, he is doing well, physically. Personality-wise though? I spent most of my time in the surgery, Commander,” she said with tones of mild rebuke. “As far as I can tell, the people he had the most interactions with were the command staff. And Angela of course, but then I suppose she had... 'interactions' with half the base,” she added.

“Is that a note of jealousy I detect, Moira?” Jack asked dryly.

“Perhaps. Why lie?” Moira said. “Put yourself in my shoes, Commander; I had a decade and a half more medical experience than she did, and yet Commander Reyes made her the head surgeon just because she and Gerard-”

“Thin ice, Doctor,” Jack said quietly, and Moira visibly recoiled a little.

“I mean- ahem,” she said, clearing her throat. “In any case, I meant to say that I suppose you and the rest of the command staff knew him better than most,” she said, bowing slightly. “More than I did, certainly. At the very least however, I can certainly say that from what I could tell from his physical readings,” she said, tapping the cybernetic implant over her eye, “our Lazarus's chances of recovery are improving.”

“Now where have I heard that before?” Jack muttered. Before Moira could reply, he raised his hand. “Zip it, Moira, I'm not in the mood,” he said, then sighed. “What about our other Talon prospects? Have they sent in their own reports?”

Moira smiled, and it was all Jack could do not to roll his eyes. “Well, sir,” she said. “I have much better news on that front.”

* * * * *

“Yo-yo-yo-hey, Sombra! I think you missed a spot.”

An irritated Sombra looked up at the newest agent who had darkened the doorstep of Talon Squad's wing in the complex the week previous. Antonia 'Toni' Bell, a.k.a. 'Phreak', looked then as she did now, clad in a leather jacket a size or two too large for her, studded with small spikes on the shoulders and her nickname sewed on the back, albeit in a special weave that only showed up in ultraviolet light. Her black hair was styled into a tall, untidy mohawk, tipped neon green near the top edge. Her voice cracked electronically, thanks to the gas mask she habitually wore; it reminded Sombra uncomfortably of that other new recruit, the one who literally looked like Death. A large-calibre rifle was slung across her back, her hands preoccupied by the rigged console holodisplay she had just found, and to which she called out to Sombra while pointing at something onscreen.

Sombra walked over, trying to bring her adrenaline-soaked nerves under control. The two of them had spent two weeks hiding out in Busan, but despite Korea's officially independent status, the two women still found themselves dodging agents from both China and Japan now and then. Like the poor unfortunates who had occupied the slum apartment they had just disposed of. 

Sombra idly wondered who they were from; probably Japanese Kenpeitai, judging by the way they kept to themselves. Agents of China's Imperial Bureau of Statistics and Intelligence tended towards the social when it came to gathering information. Whichever they were though, Oversight proved to be their betters, which meant that Sombra and Phreak were left with the cleanup.

“What are you talking about?” Sombra asked, coming up, and Phreak tapped a spot on the display hovering in front of her. “We've been through that report ten times- at least!”

“Yeah, don't remind me,” Phreak grumbled, twitching a little. Sombra didn't know why; as far as she could tell, Phreak lived surprisingly cleanly for someone like- well, like her. And then there were her speech patterns, her word choices. Sombra had never heard of anyone who spoke like her, and her net searches turned up no slang or gang cant that matched hers either. “Okay, okay, okay, so here's the good news: I did a recheck like you said, and all your alterations have uploaded properly, and nobody's going to see that they've been changed unless they know what to look for, and-and-and that leads me to the bad news: there's something for them to look for,” she said, magnifying a few lines. “Have a lookie-see,” she said. “It's still linking a whole bunch of tech shipments to Hong Kong.”

Sombra grinned and waved it off, her irritation gone. “Hah! Don't worry, I'm the one who added that entry,” she said. “There aren't any shipments to or from Hong Kong,” she added. “But if someone comes in after us and wonders what the hell happens here...”

“Ho-damn, good work, girl!” Phreak laughed. “Had me going for a bit there- yeah for seriously, that was some pro coverup work; Hong Kong's gonna look like a Men in Black convention!” she laughed. “Too bad for them though, way too bad, way way too bad; I heard they were going to try for independence again.”

“ _Si,_ that was the whole point.” Sombra replied as she looked out the blinds covering the windows. As she expected, nobody seemed to be coming. Her face soured as she saw the skyscrapers towering in the distance, gleaming in the orange evening sun. Combined with the shootout in the slum building that nobody seemed to care about, it was like Sombra had never left home. “Having everyone focus on the island should make things easier for us.”

Phreak nodded. “Okay, right, yeah, if you say so. I gotta say, we're going through a lot of trouble to go through just to hide a few shipments from the Chinese and Koreans,” she said, and Sombra shrugged. She didn't know whether it was a good or bad thing that she was starting to get used to Phreak's speech patterns.

“Eh, who cares? It's not like we'll be the ones doing the footwork down in Lijiang anyway, and it wouldn't make much of a difference if it did,” Sombra said. “Oversight pays well, and that's all that matter,” she said, beckoning Phreak to follow her.

“Easy for you to say, yeah-yeah?” Phreak said, getting up. “All I'm getting out of this is a reduced jail sentence, man oh man,” she added as the two women lined the door. A second later, they leaped out with their guns at the ready down both ends of the apartment's outer corridor. Again, they saw nothing, but Sombra wanted to be cautious, and they didn't speak until they had reached the car they had used to get there. To Sombra's surprise, she did manage to catch the sound of sirens in the distance, but by then the two women were beginning to drive away. 

“So-so-uh...” Phreak began, as if they hadn't just run down several flights of stairs and made a mad dash to their car. “You know what's in these shipments that's got the boss so crazy antsy?”

Sombra snorted. “Do you expect me to tell you that, newbie?”

“...yes?”

“ _Qué lástima,_ Phreak,” Sombra said. “If you can't hack yourself into the database yourself, I'm not going to spoonfeed you,” she said, and laughed when Phreak threw her hands up and groaned loudly. “All right, all right, I'm in a good mood. From what I could tell, the shipments are for that space station China wants to build.”

“Whoa hey now wait, hold on, I thought that was a joint project between China and us?” Phreak asked, raising an eyebrow. “Why are we hiding things from our allies? Or is this one of those 'we're friends but not really' dealios?”

Sombra shrugged a little, her hands still on the wheel. “Don't know, don't care,” she lied. “As long as the pay is good, that's all that matters. You want to go poking around, go ahead, but if you get caught doing it while you're still under probation- and anything happens to me, of course- I'll kick your ass.”

“Go ahead and try! My gun's bigger than yours, whoop-whoop!” Phreak laughed. “Seriously though, I'm not going to take any chances I don't have to, nope, no sir, nosiree _bob_ ,” she said a little more quietly, looking behind her. Sombra essayed a curious glance in the rear view mirror herself, but by that time the apartment building they had raided was long gone. “So, uh, hey now, we gonna do more of this stuff? You know, raids, offing guys, shooty-shooty bang-bang- that's a normal day in Oversight?”

“Eh, it's normal for Talon Squad,” Sombra replied. “Why, are you scared? Regretting taking the fast track to parole?”

“What? No, of course not!” Phreak replied. She looked out the window for a but, then turned back to Sombra. “Maybe. A little. Look, look, it's a bit more than I expected, all right?” she said. “Don't get me wrong, I didn't think it'd be a walk in the park, nope, nuh-uh, nano-nano, and that wasn't the first time I've had to shoot a bunch of guy dudes- but man oh man oh _man_ , I thought we'd have some backup at least, hey?” she sighed.

Sombra laughed again. “Should've stayed in school, _cariña_ ,” Sombra said. “I get the feeling that Jack sees a couple of criminals like us, he thinks that we're used to working by ourselves, or that we're sneaky, at least. See Exhibit A behind us,” Sombra said, thumbing behind her, and Phreak snorted. “Besides,” Sombra went on, growing quieter with every word. “It's easier to cover up the deaths of a few 'rogue agents' than an entire squad of soldiers, especially if those 'rogue agents' have criminal records already.”

The silence deepened as Sombra drove on. “Damn,” Phreak said at last, the tremor in her voice evident despite the electronic distortion. “Damn, damn, damn, _damn_. How oh why did you get a fat paycheck while all I got was quicker parole hearings?”

“Luck,” Sombra said blandly. “Say, you're a vegan, right?”

“Vegetarian,” Phreak said, shaking her head. “I'm totes cool fine-eo with dairy- why?”

“Remember the kimchi we had the other night? The shop's near here,” Sombra said. “Want some? My treat,” she added, giving Phreak the most reassuring smile she could. She wasn't used to playing caretaker, but it was evidently enough for Phreak, who just nodded.

*

As night fell on Busan, the two women sat hard at work in the Oversight safe house they were provided. Phreak was busy at work digitally covering their tracks, and Sombra wasn't really sure of what to make of it. On the one hand, she was pretty good at it, but on the other, it was the offence that had got her caught. On a third hand (probably from some collection Dr. O'Deorain had), the network Phreak had tried to hack when she got caught _was_ Oversight's, and Sombra doubted that any lone hacker could have managed that.

That said, it wasn't as if Korea was a slouch in tech either; there was a reason they were the only nation in the world who not only had mech walkers in the army, but the police force as well. They had the edge in micro-scale computing, and Phreak was going to have a hell of a time trying to erase any trace of them that the police managed to log in their databases. Of course, that was assuming they cared about the slum areas- judging by how slow their response had been, Sombra slightly doubted that. Even so, she ordered Phreak not to take any chances, and scour the database anyway.

Which meant that for the price of every meal they'd have for the rest of their stay in Korea (Sombra was still a little put off by how Phreak managed to negotiate her down to that), Sombra was allowed the luxury of time to scramble their tracks and leave false trails of digital breadcrumbs all over the networks. Faked details attached to perfectly mundane cargo shipments, 'hidden' files full of trash data encrypted and secreted in databases, strengthened firewalls surrounding insignificant networks- it wasn't about how may breadcrumbs there were or where they actually led, just so long as they could be found.

At least, that was what she'd put in her report to throw off suspicion. Sombra was no mystic fortune teller, but she had the feeling that writing 'It was the quickest, barest minimum I could do and call it work, now gimme my paycheck old man' wouldn't go down well with Jack.

Her fingers danced in mid-air, her eyes darting back and forth between menus only she could see. She navigated the electronic tides until she reached Oversight HQ, and breathed a soft sigh of satisfaction when she saw the backdoor into Oversight's servers she left was still relatively intact. There was some scrap code here and there of course, but that was working as designed; it kept the door hidden to everyone who didn't know where to look.

First things first- a small 'adjustment' to her regular paycheck; enough for it to be noticed and inevitably brought to Jack's attention, not enough for him to actually do anything besides slap her on the wrist. She didn't really need the money, but it was nice to have a little extra, and as far as she could tell, she'd managed to fool Jack into thinking that she was limiting her depredations to a little embezzlement. If he'd known she was actively poking around Oversight's operations logs and databases, that would be another matter altogether.

In any case, Sombra soon found herself cross-referencing what she'd managed to pick up in Busan to the central database, and her curiosity was piqued. Oversight _was_ working with China on their space station, everyone knew that. What really got Sombra's interest was the staff. As far as she could tell, while the majority of the station's menial workers and low-ranking engineers were Chinese, the security and officer Corps were going to be mostly Oversight. Even more interesting was that the few Chinese nationals in those two sections were hand-picked by Jack. 

First things first though. Sombra didn't have the computing power available to her here, but as soon as she got back to HQ she resolved herself to use Oversight's vast computing power to hack into the USA's own databases, namely those dealing with Project Deadlock, Jack's old organization. It was a lot of effort to go through, especially since Sombra thought all it would do was confirm her suspicions that those Chinese officers were linked to Deadlock somehow, either as contacts or even outright operatives.

Most interesting of all though, was what the rest of Oversight's Intelligence division was doing. If she was reading the dates right, then they were busy altering the details for shipments of other space station supplies, shipments that almost matched the ones Sombra and Phreak had been sent to redirect to the black market. Almost matched, save for a few 'extras' not even the rest of Intelligence had the clearance to know about. Once she was done with Deadlock, Sombra resolved herself to finding out about that.

She quickly logged out; no use overstaying her welcome any longer than she needed to. As she did so, she decided to take a peek at the work Phreak was doing, and her eyebrow rose. Phreak had learned her lesson, and more importantly, seemed to realize her limits. Instead of leaving a digital trail anyone could follow like she did when she tried to hack into Oversight, she left sloppy evidence of proxies and redirects all around the databases she had changed and plundered. It was the digital equivalent of covering a theft of a single document by trashing the office it was in and taking as much as one could carry, and Sombra had only one thought.

_Ah, they grow up so fast._

* * * * *

The Yakuza man was doing a good job of holding his composure as he bowed before Hanzo, but the Shimada heir could still see a slight hint of trembling in the man's posture. The calm serenity of the old-fashioned, warmly-lit room only served to magnify the menace the man must have felt. Hanzo couldn't help but feel a small sense of pride; here he was, sitting with his legs under a _kotatsu_ and clad in simple robes with a small cup of tea in front of him, yet he had this huge, scarred man in the expensive suit bowing in terror before him.

Of course, the rest of him was... _disappointed._

“The hackers we sent to Korea were among the best we had,” Hanzo said calmly as he sipped his tea. In the corner of the room, Genji stood, leaning against the wall. One of his hands was at his side, thumb idly flicking his wakizashi in and out of its scabbard. “And yet now you tell me that they are all dead. Oh, wait, sorry- 'out of contact', you said?” he asked, the temperature of the room dropping several degrees. “Under your watch?”

“Lord Shimada, we cannot know for sure-”

“Enough!” Hanzo shouted. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Genji snap into a striking pose, and held up a hand, to halt his brother mid-step. “I will assume your best men were sent with them as their guards, which means our losses, the _clan's_ were even greater- as was the magnitude of your failure,” he said, and the Yakuza visibly flinched. Hanzo took a deep breath and sipped his tea. “Thankfully for you, some of those men were officially part of the Kenpeitai,” he said. “Which means your failure lies with the National Security Council as well,” he said, and didn't know whether to laugh or vomit at the relief that crossed his underling's face. 

Still, there were good reasons to keep the man alive, and hard decisions was the one of the many burdens the head of the Shimada Clan had to bear. “You will return to your home, Jirou, where a car from the local police is currently waiting for you. At the end of your trial, you will be sentenced to life for your many crimes, with the possibility of parole in ten, maybe twenty years.” The minion, Jirou, nodded slowly- it was a harsh sentence, but he got to live. And of course, on the off-chance that the Shimadas really needed him, it wouldn't be hard to arrange an escape. “Now go!” Hanzo said, waving the man away.

He took another sip of tea to calm himself as Genji walked over to him. “You're going soft in your old age, bro,” Genji said, taking out a small canteen from a compartment in his side before kneeling beside his brother. He unscrewed the top and held it before Hanzo, bowing slightly as Hanzo sniffed the top. When Hanzo nodded, Genji poured a helping his sake into his brother's tea. “Give me five minutes alone with him and a good camera, and I'll make sure everyone in the clan knows not to fail you again.”

“Oh, I was sorely tempted, Genji,” Hanzo replied. “But apart from the fact that our maids have done nothing wrong, Jirou has shown talent before- it'd be a shame to waste it, even for a costly operation like this. Besides, we must not forget that we are not mere criminals- we are the future of Japan, and we must act like it!” he said, then took a deep breath. “And of course, there's the National Security Advisor as well.” Now it was Genji's turn to wince, which Hanzo pretended not to see. “Might as well rip off this bandage as soon as possible,” he said, pressing a few buttons under his table. “Why don't you go see if there is anything that needs doing elsewhere in the base?” he asked, and Genji gratefully accepted as the ceiling above them opened, and a large screen descended from above.

As the screen flickered to eventually reveal the pasty, almost horselike face of the puppet the Shimada family had place on the Security Council, Hanzo began to feel the familiar pangs of envy he felt whenever he had to do this. “Master Sakai,” Hanzo said, bowing as deeply as his cross-legged position and low table would allow him. “I hope you are doing well.”

“Cahm awn, Harnzoh-kuun!” Yasuzo Sakai, the National Security Advisor for the National Security Council of the Empire of Japan (Hanzo had to keep reminding himself of that fact) said in as mangled an English accent as one could have while still remaining remotely intelligible. Hanzo had no idea where he got it from; it was certainly not the accent of a Japanese man getting used to an unfamiliar language. Genji's theory was that the man picked it up from beer commercials. For his part, Hanzo had put ¥50,000 on 'crippling brain defect' into the clan's betting pool. A sizeable amount, for sure, but it was nothing compared to his deceased father's ¥5 million bet. On what, nobody knew anymore; it was generally agreed that as soon as a cause was found, the clan would agree that he won it, and split the money evenly between anyone who did manage to guess it, and the clan itself. “Ya naid t' spake Inglaish! Dhis is dhe Twainty Farst Sencherry, ya knaow!“

“Of course, Advisor Sakai,” Hanzo said in English, sipping his tea. His clan certainly needed a useful idiot in the government, and they managed this by helping cover up (and sometimes, discretely provide for) Yasuzo's many indiscretions, which certainly pleased Yasuzo's family. It was one which had ties to many ministers and the Imperial Family itself, and thus, smoothed the way for many of the clan's operations within and without Japan. That was the 'useful' aspect sorted out- now if only Hanzo could get rid of the 'idiot' bit.

“Arh tawld ya, karll meh Yasuzo!”

 _Oh, so_ his _name he gets right._ Hanzo finished the rest of his tea. He was beginning to regret not asking Genji to leave his flask behind, when he saw the glint of familiar silver next to him; Genji must have left it behind when he left. Hanzo smiled, and made himself another cup of 'tea' on the floor next to him, ensuring Yasuzo didn't see it. “Forgive me, Advisor, but my English isn't as... refined as yours. An you will't, might we perchance speak Japanese instead?”

“Shore ting, Harnzoh!” Yasuzo laughed. “So, Hanzo, buddy, pal, friend!” he said in blessedly adequate Japanese. “How much have you made us today?” 

Truly, Hanzo Shimada bore many burdens.

*

The night rain had died down to a drizzle by the time Genji left the upper compound, the small temple which served as both cover and entry/exit for the underground complex that lay beneath Hanamura. Such was the control the Shimadas had over their district that Genji could walk out unmasked, with his sword at his side and barely hidden under the long coat he wore to protect himself from the elements. After taking a moment to savour the fresh, cool air, Genji walked into the neon forest that was Hanamura.

He didn't really have any goal in mind, walking the streets as he did. He simply basked in the respectful glances he received from the populace, citizens, police and fellow clan members alike. As he walked by, Genji returned the looks he got from his elders and police with respectful nods, friendly smiles to fellow clan members, and mischievous grins to the young ladies. If he actually thought they were attractive, he winked as well, casuing them to blush. Both Hanzo and his father had said that this was how things should be, everyone knowing their place and performing their duties as they should, and Genji wasn't about to complain.

Now, if only others shared his convictions. There was crash to his side, and Genji saw a foreigner stumbling out of a restaurant. Even in the dim light, he could see the man's face was purple and twisted with anger. “If you think I'm going to pay _that_ goddamn much for goddamn _ramen_ , you're out of your damn mind!” he said, stumbling a little. A pair of policemen near Genji hastily moved towards the drunk, but stopped when Genji held up his hand. For his part, the foreigner didn't even notice. “If this is how you treat paying tourists, it's no wonder this craphole country of yours is going down the drain!”

One of Genji's eyebrows rose, his breath catching in his throat, and the two policemen slowly backed away. The foreigner was still ranting, but Genji wasn't paying attention anymore- he'd heard enough. Of course, he was planning to give the foreigner a little scare anyway, but that was when he was insulting the people under Shimada protection. Insulting _Japan_ though? Oh, now Genji was going to get _creative._

The foreigner stumbled away from the crowd, mumbling under his breath, ignorant of the fact that Genji had fallen in behind him, and that the crowd was slowly parting to make way for the younger Shimada. He stumbled through the streets, Genji following behind him patiently. Not that Genji would have needed to worry about witnesses, at least from a legal standpoint, but it never hurt to be polite. Some things weren't meant for the eyes of women, after all.

That said, Genji's patience had its limits, and it was beginning to wear thin by the time the foreigner turned and went into a dark alleyway. Genji sighed with relief- the way things had been going, he was going to act right there and then, decency be damned. Instead, he kept following as the man walked through the dark passage, but his pace quickened until he was right behind the foreigner. “What the-” the man managed to get out, before he fell to the ground, a thin spurt of blood from his mouth. 

Genji smoothly crouched as if he was about to strike, his scabbard-bound sword in his hand, a small patch of blood on the metal tip. Then strike he did, bringing the scabbard upwards to catch the foreigner on the chin, and send him rolling. The foreigner tried to stumble to his feet and run away, but strong drink and fear stole all semblance of agility. “Please, please! Don't hurt me!” he said, stumbling back onto this rear, hands in front of his face.

“Your wallet,” Genji said in English.

“Wha-”

“I said, I want your wallet,” Genji repeated calmly, emphasising each word with a nudge of his scabbard, his sword rattling softly inside with each motion. “That's all. Or you could reach for a gun,” he added, smiling serenely. “Try not to miss, eh?”

“All right, all right!” the other man said, fumbling in his pocket for his wallet. Genji motioned for him to throw the wallet, which Genji caught.

“ _Arigatou gozaimas, gaijin-san,_ ” Genji said as he pocketed the wallet. “Oh, and I lied.”

“Wait, what-”

Neon from both ends of the alleyway glinted off Genji's blade as he pulled it free of the scabbard. The other man screamed in terror as the sword cut through the air at inhuman speeds, the thin blade becoming a wall of razor-sharp steel surrounding him. Yet by the time the first part of Genji's punishment was done, the man was unharmed. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the state of his clothes, and for the split second that Genji decided to rest his arm, he could see the man had turned red completely. Whether it was from rage at being assaulted, shame at his complete nudity, or a combination of both, Genji neither knew nor cared.

After that moment's rest, Genji really got to work. The man screamed as he felt Genji's blade cut his arm; it was shallow, to be sure, but enough to draw both blood and pain. Nor was it the first. The man screamed again and again as blood flowed freely down his arm in rivulets, only to scream again when Genji repeated his feat on his chest and other arm, depending on whether the man was holding up said arm to protect himself or not. A nearby puddle, pale from reflected light, turned red. So too was Genji's sword as the ninja walked to stand over the weeping foreigner, who was lying back on the ground, barely able to keep himself up on his injured arms. “Please...” he wept. “I'm sorry!”

Genji didn't speak, instead staring down at the man with his face unable to hide the dissatisfaction he felt. There was something missing- ah, there it was! With a big smile on his face, he raised his sword high in both hands, blade downward like a dagger, and brought it downwards towards the foreign man. The foreigner's body hit the ground- unconscious, Genji's sword buried in the ground mere inches from his neck. 

Now satisfied, Genji paused to survey his handiwork. The wounds were far less grievous than they looked- if anything, when the man woke up he'd realize that it was his pride that had been more severely injured. For there on his arms, were carved the words 'DON'T INSULT JAPAN' in English, and for good measure, the same words on his chest, only mirrored, just to get the point across one way or another. With a contented sigh, Genji turned and walked away.

For about three steps, before spinning around and doubling back to the foreigner. Try as he might, he couldn't stop the gleeful giggle that had seized him, nor the impulse that brought it forth. With the tip of his sword, he swiftly carved a few rude words onto the man's forehead in Japanese, a crude but cute little sun onto one cheek and Pachimari onto the other. Only then did he give permission to the pair of policemen, who'd ran as soon as they heard the sound of screaming, to pick the man up.

Humming a merry tune, Genji practically skipped his way back to the restaurant, his heart lighter for having done a good deed. Oh, of course there would be scandal later, and the clan was going to have quite a time covering it up, but Genji was sure that his brother would understand. Besides, Genji was sure the man would thank him one day- when Japan took its place on top of the world, he'd be the most prepared for that golden age.

Reaching the restaurant, Genji pulled out every bill in the foreigner's wallet and handed it to the grateful proprietor. The owner beckoned Genji forth to an empty table in a private corner, and told Genji to order whatever he wanted; it was on the house. Technically, it was always on the house, but normally, neither Genji nor Hanzo would stoop so low as to accept charity from their lessers. For now though, Genji accepted, if only so the owner could avoid the shame of having his gratefulness refused.

Of course, karma had a way of balancing things out. Right before he was about to bite into a particularly juicy looking morsel of pork and udon, a woman sat down in front of him. Another foreigner, by the looks of it, but a much rougher one, by Genji's estimates. Cruel amber eyes and a crueler smile faced Genji, laid as they were beneath a half-shaven head- one side smooth, the other with a cascade of pink-dyed hair that fell to her ample chest. “Nice work back there,” she said in a husky contralto and slightly accented Japanese, steepling her hand in front of Genji. Now that he could take a good look at her, he could see that her arms were not, as he thought, clad in long black gloves and sleeves, but bare cybernetics. “I don't think that guy'd be forgetting his lesson any time soon.”

Genji nodded nonchalantly. If the woman could pretend like the restaurant hadn't fallen silent by her so brazenly sitting in front of him, so could he. “What can I say?” he replied smugly in English, “I'm a great teacher.” He gave her a wink. “If you like, I can teach you some lessons you won't forget either,” he said, grinning as he leaned over the table on one side- his non-dominant side. The other had been oh-so-casually placed at his waist, next to his sword, as he leaned over.

He had to admit, the woman was good. Had he not been gazing into her eyes then, he wouldn't have noticed the way they briefly flashed to where his other hand was going. “I'm not sure I could accept your offer,” she replied, still in Japanese. This time, it was her turn to lean forward. “I'm a very bad student, Mr. Shimada. I'm a very. Bad. Girl,” she said, each breath, each word, said softer, more breathlessly.

Genji held her gaze for a second before he leaned back in his seat, laughing. “Does that ever work? On anyone?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

The woman smirked. “You'd be surprised,” she said, turning to the side and calling for a waiter. “Besides, I could ask you the same question.”

“Touché,” Genji replied. There was a short pause in the conversation, when the woman ordered a drink for herself (a beer, Genji was pleasantly surprised to note), and Genji took the chance to actually eat his food. “So, you know who I am, which means you're here on business. And that means I should know who you are.”

“Of course, of course,” the woman said. “Officially, I'm Specialist Raquel Weaver, from Oversight,” she said, extending a hand which Genji took firmly, trying to suppress the wariness he felt when he heard Oversight's name. “But you can call me Recluse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the off-chance that you skipped the notes at the beginning, I would like to ask my readers' opinions of Phreak's and Yasuzo's speech patterns. Phreak will be a recurring character, while Yasuzo will only pop in once in a while, and not speaking his horrendous English. That said, it's very possible that I might have gone overboard with this, and if so, please inform me via review or email so I can make for a better reading experience.


	3. Nowhere To Go But Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long this took to come out, but between work hammering me and my being a weak-willed simpleton who got a boatload of games for their birthday- well, a delay couldn't be helped. Or it could, but again, see my point about my willpower (or lack of it). Sorry again!

“Amélie, are you sure about this?”

“It's all right, Fareeha,” Amélie said, waving off the objections of her colleague as they walked through the armoury's corridors. They looked like any other pair of Helix operatives their in faded dark blue camo fatigues, berets and flak jackets, but today it wasn't just Amélie's blue skin that made her stand out. She saw the looks directed at her from the other Helix operatives in the area; some curious, some admiring, some even jealous- but all had a bit of pity in them. She nodded at a few of them, saluted those who were her superiors, but her pace didn't slow. “I have to do this,” she said, before turning to Fareeha and grinning widely. “You could say that I have to see for myself,” she told Fareeha, who simply rolled her eyes in response as she kept up with Amélie's pace.

The firing range was an anachronism in the late 21st Century; like Oversight, most military organizations had moved onto hard-light arenas to train their operatives. However, the range had been a part of Helix since the company was established in the late 20th Century; as such, between its age and its sentimental value, it had turned from a military facility to a tourist attraction- an exhibition site to show off Helix's latest advances, or to show investors how their money was paying off. Indeed, behind a transparent soundproof (and bulletproof) barrier, a tour guide was showing a group of more potential investors to their tables at the attached dining room. Whether they were there by coincidence, or if someone wanted to show her off, Amélie didn't know. 

If it was the latter, the people responsible were definitely not the two people waiting for her among the alcoves of the firing range. The elder Amari looked tired, but she still managed to give Amélie a warm smile as she and Fareeha approached, while the dour-faced man next to her sighed, idly scratching his chin, dusted with silver-tipped black stubble. Amélie didn't think it was possible for Dr. Luqman Ferdos to look even more grumpy than he usually did, but the look he gave her made it seem like he'd been sucking lemons all morning. 

Amélie was about to wave to Ana, when she felt Fareeha gently put a hand on her shoulder. “Doorway,” she told Amélie, nodding to the side.

“ _Merci,_ ” she said, moving to the side a little and pretending to not notice Fareeha's slight hesitation to do the same. Their course corrected, Amélie turned her attention back to Ana and Luqman, where her lips narrowed a little when the doctor's gaze caught her own.

_Told you so._

“Your weapon,” he said out loud, gesturing to the alcove where Amélie's Huntsman lay next to a conventional sniper rifle. As Amélie walked over and picked it up, he turned around slightly and spoke into his comms. “All right, let's begin target practice,” he told an unseen technician somewhere, then turned back to Amélie. “You do realize that this is a waste of time, correct? If you would just listen to me-”

“Yes, yes,” Ana said, pushing him away gently but firmly. “You've said as much these past few days,” she said, shaking her head at him before turning to Amélie. “What about you? Are you ready?” she asked.

“I am,” Amélie replied, raising the rifle to her shoulder. “This isn't as much of a handicap as Dr. Luqman seems to think it is,” she added, gesturing with her Huntsman to the eyepatch she now wore.

Luqman snorted. “Says the woman who nearly walked into a doorway.”

Before Amélie could retort, a buzzer sounded. Hard-light projectors blazed, summoning a few human-shaped targets into existence at the distant end of the range. She took a deep breath, letting the familiar hum of its firing chamber charging steady her, and fired. The figure she fired at flickered, then disappeared in a burst of blue light. Her finger clenching on the trigger once more, Amélie took a moment to charge another shot, with similar results.

“Good, good,” Luqman said, raising a finger to his comms. “Let's proceed with the next phase,” he called out. The humanoid targets blinked out of existence, replaced with holographic drones. “Begin acceleration,” he added, and the drones began speeding up as they moved back and forth. “you have thirty seconds to take them all out,” he said, and Amélie nodded. She brought the Huntsman back to her shoulder, sighted a target- and missed. Hissing under her breath, she tried again, and could only watch as her shot went low. 

Someone cleared their throat next to her, and she glanced over to see Luqman bring the other rifle to his shoulder. As his rifle roared, one drone blinked out of existence. Then another, and another. “In my younger days, I was a Helix sniper myself. How do you think a Cairo slum kid managed to pay for medical school?” he said, then sighed. “Look, Miss Guillard, I'm sorry,” he told her quietly. “But there is no way I can certify you as fit for sniper duty anymore, not like this at least.”

“You can't do that!” Fareeha said, and Luqman shook his head.

“I can, I will, and all because I have no choice,” he said. “Now, before you say anything else, I'd like to remind you we have an audience,” he said, indicating the businesspeople in the next room, who were watching with all apparent curiosity. “If you want to take this up with me, we can do it where they aren't watching.”

Fareeha's eyes flashed, and if it hadn't been for Amélie clasping her shoulder, she would have undoubtedly said something Helix would regret, at least until its PR department managed to smooth it over. The brief glance of gratitude she gave Amélie was quickly replaced with bewilderment as Amélie pushed her away. “Dr. Luqman,” Amélie said, motioning for him and Ana to back away as well. “I read somewhere that motion might be able to assist in judging distance- is that true?”

“Yes, that is true,” he said, as Amélie shifted her Huntsman to assault mode and turned back to the range. “But-”

“Restart the course,” Amélie said firmly.

Luqman sighed again. “Fine, for what good it would do,” he said. “Restart the sim and the countdown,” he said into his comms. “As I said before though, I don't-”

Without warning, Amélie leapt to the side, her finger firmly on the trigger. The Huntsman fired thrice, and with each report, a bolt found its mark in a holo-target. Right before she hit the ground, Amélie quickly extended a hand, turning a fall into a cartwheel, all while thumbing her Huntsman to full-auto with the hand she still had on the rifle. As her flip ended, she briefly found herself with both feet on the wall- the firing range wasn't all that big, after all. With one mighty push, she leapt off the side of the wall, the rifle spitting energy. Her first few shots missed before she brought her other hand back up to steady the Huntsman, but when it did, there wasn't a bolt wasted. 

Amélie's sensory perceptions were concentrated almost wholly in her sight, the cracking fire of her rifle sounding like it came from miles away underwater. She felt herself land, the jolt travelling from her feet to her spine as she skid across the range's floor, but it was as if it was happening to another person. She had never been to an amusement park in her life, but she had seen them in old videos. What she was going through now was almost like what she saw of shooting galleries, except that to her, she was the one who was moving to the side while all the targets remained still.

Only when she didn't feel the familiar kick in her shoulder did reality come rushing back in. Ana's raucous laughter, the smell of ozone in the air from her rifle, the pounding of her heart, and the strain from empty lungs begging for the deep breaths she was taking. “Well?” she said, grinning at Luqman, who shook his head.

“My opinion has not changed,” he said, to the shock of both Amaris.

“What are you talking about, Luqman?” Ana asked, eyebrows raised.

“You can't be serious, doctor!” Fareeha added with an incredulous smile. “I mean, they certainly thought it was good!” she said, pointing at the investors beyond the soundproof barrier. They had obviously enjoyed the show, with all of them applauding, and a few of them obviously laughing as uproariously as Ana had been. “What more do you need?”

The doctor gave the investors a strained, plastic smile, which remained on his face as he bade the women follow him. “Please, come with me,” he said, and walked off before anyone could answer him.

*

“So,” Fareeha began as soon as Amélie shut the door to Dr. Luqman's office behind them. “What exactly is the problem? Were you watching the same thing we were? Maybe it's your eyes that should get check-”

“Fareeha, enough,” Ana said, placing a firm hand on her daughter's shoulder. “I'm sure Luqman has his reasons,” she said, fixing her gaze on the doctor as he sat down. It wasn't a hostile glare, but it certainly carried the promise of danger.

“All right,” Luqman began. “Good news first,” he said, pointing at Amélie. “Guillard, I'm certifying you as fit for active duty. You've proven that much, at least.”

“But not sniper duty,” Amélie replied. Judging by the somewhat nonplussed looks Ana and Fareeha were giving her, they were a little surprised at how nonchalant she was about that.

“That's right. You've proven that too,” he said. “Look, as I said, I was a sniper too. It is a job where judging distance is an important element. True, it's not as important as it was in my day, when energy weapons were still in their infancy, and we had to worry about things like bullet drop,” he added. “But as long as we're on Earth, the Coriolis Effect will always be something to worry about. And if you cannot at least eyeball your range, if you'll pardon the expression, then that will severely hamper your ability as a sniper.”

“Understood,” Amélie replied.

“Well, I don't,” Fareeha said, folding her arms. “Come on, Doctor, there must be something you can do. Aren't cybernetic eyes a thing? I read somewhere that it's even possible to clone eyes these days!”

Luqman didn't answer at first; instead, he directed his gaze to Amélie. She held his gaze for a second, and sighed. “You can tell them,” she said, rubbing her forehead with one hand, and waving him off with the other. “But I doubt it would change my decision.”

“Decision?” Ana asked. “Amélie, is there something we should know?”

“I have actually discussed possible treatment methods with Specialist Guillard,” Luqman said, leaning forward in his seat. “The problem here is that... well, we all know her physiology is unusual, if you don't mind me saying so, Specialist,” he said, nodding to Amélie, who nodded in return. “However, I will admit that I misjudged just how unusual it is.”

He pressed a button on his desk, and a screen descended behind him, flickering into life with a variety of charts, x-rays and holographic diagrams. “If you'll forgive me, I'll skip the technical explanations,” he said, and Amélie noticed Ana sighing slightly with relief. “However, you still need to see these, he said, touching one of the holograms and expanding it. “You see this? This is a sample of Specialist Guillard's blood,” he said, blowing the diagram up further. “You see those devices between them?”

“Nanomachines, yes,” Fareeha said impatiently. “Who doesn't have them these days? I had them in my vaccinations back in school.”

“Not like these, I assure you,” Luqman said. “These nanomachines are the pinnacle of the art, combining both biological and mechanical precision, and while we can certainly replicate them in our fabricators, it is a slow, expensive process- and one that is actively hindering our own efforts to help Guillard by conventional means.”

He turned back to the women assembled in his office. “You see, Miss Guillard's body is a one-of-a-kind machine, if you'll all forgive the analogy. While all the components resemble their conventional counterparts, they all require special maintenance, special materials that I cannot perform.” He coughed. “At first, I tried incorporating the nanomachines into a cloned eye, but when I performed tests to ensure tissue compatibility with the rest of her body... well, this happened.”

He tapped another diagram, and the sight of a petri dish sparking with electricity made both and and Fareeha back away a little. “For some reason, despite being made with her own DNA and infused with her own nanomachines, the tissue samples actively attacked- literally _attacked_ \- each other. It was as if each of them viewed the other as foreign matter. The cybernetic eye fared even worse,” he said, shaking his head. “It was hard enough, repairing the neural damage caused by the crossbow bolt. This was completely beyond my knowledge.”

His gaze intensified. “And so with that in mind, I decided to make a suggestion, one that Amélie refused.”

“Which was?” Ana asked, as Amélie leaned against a wall.

Luqman opened his mouth to speak, paused, and glanced at Amélie. Amélie shrugged, and gestured for him to continue. Taking a deep breath, he turned back to Ana and Fareeha. “If either of you two could persuade Amélie to give me permission to contact Dr. Ziegler, I could certainly see myself being able to help her.”

Fareeha's eyebrows rose, a wide smile on her face. “Well, I don't see why we can't do this!” she said, turning to Amélie. “I can go talk to Intelligence, if you like,” she said. “There has to be-” she said, stopped by her mother's hand on her shoulder, and the shaking of the older woman's head.

“Amélie,” Ana said quietly. “I suppose your mind is made up then?”

Amélie nodded. “It is,” she said. “The Shambali monks are doing so much, I will not burden them nor those working with them, especially if I can still serve here in some other way,” she said. It was a weak excuse at best, a brazen lie about something she hadn't the slightest clue about at worst, she knew that. She also knew that as far as the question of legality was concerned, it would be enough to hold up in court if anyone in the room acted against her wishes. Especially if by doing so she still managed to save Helix some money- they were still a corporation, after all.

Judging by his grimace, Luqman knew it. “Well,” he sighed. “I've done all I could,” he said, turning off the display behind him. “If you ever change your mind, I'll be here.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Amélie replied, pushing herself off the wall. “If there isn't anything else, I'd like to return to my quarters now,” she said, saluting both Ana and the doctor, who saluted back in resignation.

“Wait,” Fareeha said, holding up a hand. “I'll come with you as well,” she said. “If you don't mind,” she added hastily. When Amélie gave her assent, she left with the French woman, leaving Ana and Luqman to exchange looks of tired worry.

*

“So, are you coming?” Fareeha asked Amélie while the two women walked down the ramp leading to the dorms, the two women having an unspoken agreement to avoid the stairs. As the _adhan_ , the Muslim call to prayer, was broadcast through speakers mounted in the walls, it wasn't easy to hear her. However, it did mean that the walk back to their dorms was a little less crowded than usual, as the Muslim personnel either prepared for their prayers in their own quarters or joined their fellows in the many prayer rooms located throughout the massive building complex that was Helix HQ.

“Coming to what?” Amélie asked, nodding to a group of officers rushed to a prayer room, who saluted her as they ran past.

“Captain Khalil's moved the party for the new guy, Tariq, from next week to tonight, right after evening prayers,” Fareeha said. “Didn't anyone tell y- oh, yes, right, that,” Fareeha said, facepalming as Amélie raised the eyebrow above her eyepatch. “Sorry, I should have told you,” she said, giving Amélie a sheepish grin. “My apologies, Amélie.”

“It's all right,” Amélie replied quietly. “I think we were all preoccupied then,” she added, remembering the days after their operation in Bir Tawil. She wasn't there in the room when Ana called Kimiko's family, and as bad as it made her feel, there was a sense of relief that she didn't have to go through that. But Fareeha was- insisted on being there, in fact- and if what she said was true, that Kimiko's husband and children only nodded and bowed silently when they heard the news... Amélie wouldn't have wanted to switch places with her for anything.

“I suppose so,” Fareeha replied. “In any case,” she said, a little louder this time as the echoes of the _adhan_ 's last verses died away, “the Captain's decided to move the welcome party up to tonight instead of after the official end of Tariq's evaluation, especially now that you're up and about,” she said. Neither woman was willing to mention the reason, though they both knew; Helix's jump squads were the corporation's most prestigious units, but also the most dangerous. If anything happened to Tariq... well, at least he'd have this night.

And something was happening, all right. “Don't worry,” Amélie said, giving Fareeha a reassuring smile. “He's being sent to guard that security conference in Korea, isn't he? I doubt anything would happen to him there.”

Fareeha's breath hissed as she sucked in air through her teeth. “Yes, well...” she said, shaking her head slightly. “I'm sure he won't get into any trouble- especially since we'll be there to watch over him.”

Amélie raised an eyebrow. “We?”

“We,” Fareeha repeated firmly. “I tried to persuade Captain Khalil to keep you on the Kurjikstan mission, but he kept refusing, and, well...” Fareeha gave Amélie a sheepish glance. “I told him that either he brings you along to Kurjikstan, or he sends me to Korea as well.” She shrugged. “Which is why we're going on an all-expenses paid trip to Busan now,” she joked resignedly, though Amélie could detect the slight hint of excitement beneath, before she sighed. “I suppose I should say goodbye to any chance of promotion, at least for the time being.”

“Fareeha!” Amélie said with mock reprimand. “Don't be so dramatic- Khalil is not the type of man to hold a grudge. Besides,” she added, “I will need some time to get used to this, after all,” she said, pointing at her eyepatch, “and with the other nations taking part in the operation, I doubt the Russians would try anything, lest they anger someone. And if they did, I doubt two more women would be able to do anything.”

Fareeha nodded; unsurely at first, then with a little more confidence a moment later. “Hmm... I suppose you're right,” she said, then gave Amélie a sly glance. “I'm sure we'll be tested to the limits there in Korea,” she said. “Watching over a bunch of old men and women talk about how much money they're going to spend on each other.”

“Indeed it is- we will be performing a vital duty,” Amélie said primly. “Many of the world's highest profiled politicians and corporate leaders are going to be there. Any disruptions would have global repercussions,” she added with exaggerated sanctimoniousness.

“Very good, Amélie!” Fareeha said, grinning. “With a little more practice, you might even make that somewhat believable.” She elbowed Amélie gently in the side. “Congratulations, I'm volunteering you for media duty.”

“Of course, ma'am,” Amélie said, giving Fareeha a small smile and salute in return. “So,” she added, as the door to her quarters came into view. “I'll see you at... eight?”

“Eight sounds about right,” Fareeha nodded. “Don't worry, I'm sure they won't start the party without you.”

Amélie nodded, and went into her somewhat lavishly-decorated room; one thing she could say about Helix, they didn't skimp on the creature comforts for their higher-ranked operatives. As she turned to close the door though, she saw Fareeha still standing in the doorway, as if she wanted to say something. “Is there something else, Fareeha?” Amélie asked, as if she didn't know already.

Fareeha opened her mouth. Fareeha closed her mouth. Fareeha closed her eyes and exhaled. “No, no, it's nothing,” she said, giving Amélie a slight smile. “See you at the party.”

“You too,” Amélie said, closing the door as Fareeha walked off. As soon as she heard the click of the door's mechanical slats coming together, she leaned against it and sighed. _I'm sorry, Fareeha,_ she thought to herself as she looked back up, as if to look through the door at Fareeha's back. She was fairly certain Salih knew; the tech had an eye for more than electronics. She couldn't see how Captain Khalil didn't know, and judging by the glance Tariq gave her after his unsuccessful attempt to ask Fareeha out, he must have suspected. Amélie wondered if it was like that back at Oversight for the rest of the squad as they watched her and Angela.

Speaking of which... Amélie glanced over to her table, where her computer sat. _Here we go again_ , she thought as she walked over and turned it on. As the computer began booting up, Amélie leaned back in her chair, her hands over her face, a groan choking in her throat. “Five years,” she whispered. “Five years,” she said again, as if that and the repetition would make it true, and the groan she tried to hold back now mixing in with her words. “Damn it, Amélie, it has been _five years_ ,” she repeated, but try as she might, it didn't grate on her. At least, it didn't grate on her like she wanted it to, like a constant reminder of someone she didn't care about anymore.

It _was_ a constant reminder, though- and that was the problem.

The glow of the holoscreen before her had turned into a glare within her eye, and she glared back. Then with a resigned sigh, she opened up her personal email, and began typing.

**Are you there, Angela? Amélie here.**

There were times when she began formally, times when she decided to be more casual. There was no system, at least none that she was consciously aware of. As far as Amélie was concerned, her heart got her into this trouble, her heart could damned well handle the aftermath.

**Everything is going fine here. I have recently been injured, but it is minor, nothing to worry about. It does mean I will experience a shift in my duties, but since it comes with a babysitting trip to Korea, I am not complaining.**

Amélie sighed. What the hell was she doing, trying to keep Angela from worrying about her? Here and now and with everything going on? How did that even make the slightest amount of sense? And yet...

**I think**

Her fingers stopped above the keys, the words getting caught in the web of her fingers. _I think I want to see someone else,_ she wanted to write. “Five years,” she whispered to herself. “She isn't going to wait forever.” _Go on, Amélie. You're a grown woman, not some lovestruck teenager. I can do this. I_ have _to._

_Don't I?_

She brought her fingers down- and laughed softly to herself. 

**I think I'm still in love with you.**

There. She said it. Smiling sadly, Amélie leaned back in her seat, shaking her head as she read the short sentences she wrote. Fareeha might not be able to wait forever, and for all Amélie knew, Angela wasn't either- hell, maybe Angela _hadn't_ , and Amélie was pining for someone who was spoken for. 

Amélie shook her head again. Whatever the consequences, she would come to terms with her decision one day- just not this one.

Besides, it wasn't the first time she faced that fact, and it wouldn't be the last. As her fingertip moved across the 'Send' button on her holoscreen's touch interface and to 'Save', Amélie sighed at the amount of unsent messages within her inbox. Maybe she'd send them one day- but again, it wouldn't be this one. She shut off the holoscreen, got up and went to the bathroom- she had a party to attend.

* * * * *

Angela sat up with a great deal of effort, grimacing with each second of motion. She reached out gingerly, hoping against hope that some kind of weapon was nearby; maybe Zarya had fallen asleep next to her and left her gun on the ground. Angela certainly hoped so; that damned sun needed to be shot for shining too loudly.

Finding no nearby means by which to exact retribution on the sun, Angela gingerly lowered herself back onto her bed, pulling to covers over herself. The room was heated, and Angela had a lot of time to get used to the mountain cold, but right now all Angela wanted was to curl up and die. At least then the pain would stop. Her bleary eyes fell on the Caduceus Staff in the corner of her room. She contemplated banging it against the wall to somehow reverse its polarity and have it drain her life, but decided against it because it was too noisy.

After a while, the door creaked open, and Angela did her best to carve Zenyatta into pieces with her glare. Then the scent of tea wafted over to her, and she decided she might be able to settle for dismembering the monk. He was an omnic, he can be put together again, she thought.

As Angela pushed the covers back down and groggily rose back up, Zenyatta turned his gaze left and right, looking for the sole seat in Angela's sparse room. Finding it, he sat down beside Angela, and she gratefully took the steaming cup of tea he offered. At these altitudes, water boiled at lower temperatures than at lower levels- the upshot of this was that despite the roiling steam, the tea was pleasantly hot as it passed Angela's lips, the steam itself carrying with it the fragrant aroma of tea and honey. “Thanks you, Zenyatta,” she said, smiling wanly.

“You're welcome,” Zenyatta replied, bowing slightly. “Once you are feeling better, come to the common room- there will be coffee there when you do,” he added, and Angela laughed.

“Saints, all of you,” she said, before holding a hand to her head. “Damn it,” she said. “I mean no offence, Zenyatta,” Angela said, leaning back against the head of her bed, hand still over her head. “But you're omnics- how do you brew beer like that?”

He shrugged helplessly. “It was our first time making it,” he admitted. “The local villagers do have their own recipe, but it was low in alcohol- I thought it would have been weaker than what you were used to. I suppose I went a little overboard when I instructed my brethren in the brewing process.” Despite the joviality in his voice, Angela could hear the slight note of strain in it as he sighed. “Though after Siberia, I suppose a little indulgence might be called for.”

“No arguments here,” Angela replied quietly. She could still remember Barisov's horrified expression as their small radio brought news of Russian tanks massing at the borders of the small nation of Kurjikstan. It had been one of the many nations that broke away from the Russian Empire at the same time as Siberia did in the mid 1940s, and like its larger neighbour seemed to have its independence secured. 

Then Russia reconquered Siberia near the end of the Omnic Crisis. The bear had come out of its den, and Kurjikstan knew it would be next. Though it was dwarfed by Siberia in every respect, it was still the second-largest nation to break away from the Empire. Now it seemed that the Industrial Council had enough of waiting.

Angela's eyes narrowed as she remembered another Russian's face- Demichev's, when he oh-so-graciously agreed to provide the transport they would need to leave Siberia 'as Russia wanted to guarantee their safety', three weeks into their month-long mission. True, it was longer than what Demichev had been willing to give them, but Angela hated giving that man even the smallest victory, and she didn't need Amélie's emphatic abilities to guess just why the bastard looked so damned happy. 

_Amelie..._

“You said there was coffee in the common room?” Angela said, shaking her head, trying to clear her mind of the fog that clouded it.

*

The mid-morning sun shone through the mountains, covering all it touched in a bright, yet warm light. Mountains gleamed, and so did the floating statues around the temple, their metal bodies both contrasting and complimenting the temple's masonry. Distant snatches of birdsong intermingled with out by the soft humming drone of the Shambali monks' electronic meditation, as well as the soft scritching of a broom as a monk cleared the small transport dock at one end of the temple.

But the temple wasn't all there was to the Shambali. Below the mountaintop temple, beyond the small shrine at the complex's entrance, was a bustling village. It wasn't always this way- before the monks set up shop, the village had been just like any other sleep Nepali burg. Even the most ascetic of omnics required a great deal of infrastructure to support themselves, though, and that meant that the Shambali brought the modern world with them.

From the outside, it would have seemed to any outside observer that, apart from the much larger transport dock near the cliffside and the equalliy sizeable population, the village was still no different from those scattered through the Himalayas. Shepherds still herded their livestock through the bustling streets, merchants hawked their wares from simple stalls, pack animals drew carts laden with goods, and labourers still cut stones from the mountain as their ancestors did. All in all, in general life in the village of New Shambhala carried on as it always did, before the village changed its name, before there was a village proper at all.

With a few new innovations, of course, ones which would become obvious for anyone paying even the slightest amount of attention. Though the villages homes were simple structures of stone and wood, their edges were too sharp, their sides and curves too smooth to have been achieved by non-technological means. The monks had not just brought a need for high technology, they also brought it with them. The vast computers and databases in the temple stored uncounted amounts of data, while their monks electronic meditations were tailored to also help with data processing on a massive scale. Thanks to them, scientific research and economic data processing in Nepal dwarfed those of almost all its neighbours, save India. In the space of a few years, Nepal had become a power to be reckoned with in the Himalayas, thanks to the monks.

And of course, omnics and pro-omnic organizations around the world donated money, processing time or resources to the monks. The more fortunate among them often gave all three, when they had the chance. Zarya and Angela also helped on occasion, helping with omnic causes wherever and whenever they were needed.

The villagers certainly benefited from the wealth that both Nepal and the rest of the international community bestowed on the monks. Their homes had kitchens, but needed neither fireplaces nor lamps; instead, their interiors were lit by warmly glowing fusion lights. Carts glided over the soil on antigravity generators, and the stonemasons cut stone as easily as they would saw wood thanks to the ultra-dense metals used in their stone saws. Of course, the high density of the saws meant that they were exceptionally heavy, and thus could only be wielded properly by the village's strongest residents.

Which was why Angela found herself quietly take a sip of coffee from her thermos as she watched Zarya and an equally bulked man hewed a block of stone from the mountain, their two-man saw seeming as sharp as the day the monks made it for New Shambhala's masons. She mentally shrugged; for all she knew, it was. “So that's what I wanted to speak with you about,” she finished as delicately as possible. “What do you think?”

“What I think?” Zarya said, picking up a bottle of water next to her and taking a sip. “I am thinking that you are a masochist to want to work so hard,” she laughed, shaking her head. “We have been back for barely a day, and already you are making plans to leave for Kurjikstan's capital!” She scratched her head. “What was it called again?”

“Boklovo,” Angela replied.

“Yes, that's it!” Zarya replied. “Or maybe you are crazy for wanting to put yourself into the line of fire, eh?” she laughed, before becoming a little more serious. “Do you truly think this will work?”

“It's the best chance we have for stopping a war, at least for a while,” Angela said. “You heard Demichev, the Russians are having enough problems keeping Siberia under control as it is,” she said, and Zarya let out a triumphant laugh. “And if they so much as give harsh glares towards a Shambali peace mission, they're going to have problems. Problems which are bad for business, and the Industrial Council won't like that.” Angela took another sip of her coffee, feeling the heat suffuse her. “The Shambali are a symbol, and the Council know that.”

Zarya nodded slowly. “And once you are in- what was the name again?- once you are in Boklovo, what then?” she asked, getting back to sawing. “Just stand around and stare at the Russians until they blink?”

Angela sighed. “That's... that's a good question, really,” she said. “Zenyatta and the Tekharta are discussing that with Grand Marshal Hamidov,” she added, trying hard not to roll her eyes at the title Kurjikstan's leader gave himself. “They have had a shortage of doctors for the past year or so though, so I suppose I might be able to help with that.”

It seemed at first that Zarya hadn't been listening, instead concentrating on helping her fellow workers cut the slabs of stone they sliced from the mountain into manageable bricks. But when she turned back to Angela, her eyes were alert. “Good, good,” she said, wiping her brow. “It seems you actually do have a plan for yourself in Kurjikstan,” she said. “It also seems that you will not be coming with the rest of us to Korea,” she said, giving Angela an arch look.

Angela nodded. The Busan Conference promised to be one of the most important steps forward in omnic acceptance since the Crisis, with China, Korea, Japan and even the nations of Southeast Asia negotiating on increasing the rights of their omnic populations, and it pained Angela that she wouldn't be able to attend. However, “War might break out in Kurjikstan,” she said quietly. “If that happens, I will be able to save more lives there than in Busan.”

Zarya nodded as she helped load the last of the bricks onto a waiting cart. “I cannot argue with that logic,” she said. “I'll pray for you as much as I can in Korea,” she added.

“So you're still going to Korea, then?” Angela asked, and Zarya nodded. “Oh, well then, good,” she said. “I must admit,” Angela said, “you're taking this much better than I thought you would.”

There was silence at first, filled only with the sound of stone being sawed in half. “No, I'm not,” Zarya said at last, her eyes firmly fixed on the job. She was as calm and collected as ever, but there was a note of bitterness in her tones that wasn't there before. “Trust me, Doctor, I want to be there in case the Russians start anything. Part of me feels that I _need_ to be there. And that is why I cannot- no, _will not_ do so,” she said, before turning to Angela. “Can I show you something?”

Angela nodded, and waited while Zarya informed the head mason that she was about to take a break. The man grinned and waved her off, calling for an apprentice mason to take Zarya's place while she led Angela off. She led Angela onto a balcony overlooking the busy square, and looked below to the scenes of village commerce below with a wistful sigh. “I am not educated like you are, Doctor,” she said quietly. “I cannot build machines that heal or fly, as you have. I don't know anything about healing people and making them better-”

 _Neither do I,_ Angela thought.

Zarya lifted her arms, clenching her fists and flexing her biceps as she did so. “But I could lift a gun. I could punch a man so hard he flew across the room. I could fight.” She sighed. “And on the way here to New Shambhala, that's what I thought I would do.” She turned to the doctor. “Have I ever told you why I chose to stay in New Shambhala, Doctor?”

Angela shook her head. “No, but that's all right,” she said. “I always assumed you would tell me when- if you were ready,” she added a little quietly.

Zarya nodded. “Don't worry, Doctor,” she said. “Whenever you are ready to tell me, I will do my best to be there. But now? Now, it is I who am ready,” she said.

*

The snow proved to be no hindrance to the teenage Zarya, her broad, wool-lined boots giving her enough traction to pursue the Russian scout through the Siberian woods. Any attempt the man made to outrun or hide from Zarya was made useless by the clouds of vapour his increasingly ragged breath made in the air, visible even in the dusk light, as well as his increasingly laboured breathing. _Hmph- city boy,_ Zarya thought derisively. She, on the other hand, spent her life (brief as it was thus far) in and around woods very much like these, and she was sure she could catch him. She had to, before he left the range of the portable jammer the retreating omnic war machines had brought with them.

Far behind her, she could hear other people running, other breaths and voices. Some were the village's hunters, others were Siberian soldiers who knew the war was lost. All knew that all it would take was one call to nearby Russian forces, one artillery barrage, and all that Zarya's village were would be wiped out.

She was close, so close- she had to take the chance. Zarya leapt, tackling the Russian to the ground, not knowing who screamed first or louder. A short, bloody melee ensued- Zarya remembered the taste of blood on her lips, but not who it came from. She remembered the dampness of blood on her fists and her lips. She remembered the scout's roar of defiance as he reached into his coat, and Zarya remembered charging him again, smashing them both into a tree and sending them rolling down a short slope. 

The pistol's crack was muffled by the tangle of limbs Zarya found herself in, and no sooner than they hit the ground again, she sat up in shock. Gasping in terror, she felt around herself, looking for the place the bullet had surely hit. But after a few terrifying moments, she breathed a sigh of relief at being unharmed, her long-held breath making a large cloud in front of her.

One she didn't see coming from the Russian scout.

She clambered over to him, a large rock in her hands, ready to bring it down with full force on the man- and she stopped. Even in the dim light, it was obvious that it was no man lying before her, but a boy. A trickle of blood trailed down the side of his mouth, the mouth of a man who couldn't have been older than Zarya. Why was he here? Were the Russians so desperate they were conscripting children? Did he lie about his age to perform what he thought was his patriotic duty? Did he sign up to impress a girl? Was he related to some Russian official, and wanted to prove himself to his family?

So many questions Zarya wanted to ask the boy, none of which would be answered. “Mama?” he said, his voice surprisingly clear and steady a moment before the cloud of his breath disappeared from his mouth. Zarya barely heard the approach of her fellow villagers and soldiers as she dropped the rock, barely heard their cheers and compliments as they approached. She barely heard the Tsar Bomba fall, the bomb that decisively ended both the lives of the Siberian omnium and her homeland's struggle to maintain its independence.

She could faintly remember the heat, the rumbling roar, her bones vibrating with the shockwave of impact. It took a while to reach her, of course, the Tsar Bomba having detonated hundreds of miles away- but her most vivid memories were of the boy she left alone in the cold forest.

*

“I don't even know if anyone came for him,” Zarya said, her voice still soft as she shook her head. She sighed. “It's easy to say that you're willing to fight and kill to keep your people, your nation safe. It's harder to face that reality.” Her eyes ran over the scene before her, the buildings and structures that weren't there before she and the monks came to the mountain. “This, though? Building those houses, assembling the stones to make that pillar, the temple- that is a much better life. But _that_ is a story I have told before,” she said, giving Angela a warm smile.

Angela nodded slowly. She'd heard Zarya talk about how she helped build New Shambhala, of course, and both the monks and the townsfolk were willing to supply any details Zarya glossed over. “It seems we both came here looking for some kind of peace,” she said. 

“Indeed, we have, Doctor, and we owe it to the rest of the world to help _them_ find it as well,” Zarya replied sadly, before turning to face Angela. Though her tones were still soft, the gaze with which she affixed to Angela was an intense one. “Doctor, let me be perfectly clear: Nothing, I mean _nothing,_ would give me more pleasure than to go to Kurjikstan. To bring my gun to Boklovo and cut down every Russian who so much as looks across the border. That soldier in the forest? I remember him, yes, but every day I do so my disgust and sadness lessens- and I hate that it happens. I hate that I am getting used to it, to the taking of a man's life.” 

Zarya sighed again, rubbing her forehead. “And that is why I cannot go to Kurjikstan, not so soon after seeing my homeland again,” she said. “It is one thing to stand guard over a tent or hand out medical supplies to whoever needs it. But if you asked me to fight, and against the Russians, no less...” She shook her head. “Forgive me, Doctor, but I don't think I would be able to stand how good it would feel to do so, or bear the stain on my conscience after.”

“There's nothing to forgive,” Angela said. “There's nothing wrong with what you're doing, or why you're doing it.”

Zarya goggled at her for a moment, then smiled. “Thank you, Angela,” she said. “I... I really needed to hear that,” she added, then laughed. “Hah! No wonder you're a doctor!” she said, patting Angela's shoulder. “The world would be much better if more people had your kindness.”

It was all Angela could do to fake a sincere smile as Zarya walked off, giving Angela a wave that she returned. She did want to help the people of Boklovo any way she could, of course, but she had other reasons as well. After all, Kurjikstan was a buffer state between Russia and the Middle East, which made it very important to the latter. And in this day and age, 'important to the Middle East' was really just a roundabout way of saying 'important to Egypt'. 

Which meant that they would probably have their people on site.

And odds were good that some of those people would be from Helix.

* * * * *

“Looks amazing, doesn't it?”

Satya Vaswani turned around briefly, where she caught both Big Sky's gaze and wide grin. She tried to return the smile, but her expression was already returning to the tense grimace she had when she was looking at the metal monstrosity in front of her, just moments before. “It is... terrific,” she said as Big Sky walked up to her. “By which I mean it inspires terror.” She rubbed her forehead. “Forgive me, Big Sky, I don't meant to demean your new ship. If nothing else, it's quite the technological marvel.”

“No offence taken ma'am,” Big Sky replied, walking up next to her. “I get where you're coming from. All I can do- all _we_ can do is keep in mind her tech specs, and not what she's going to be used for. Not until the last minute, at least.”

Satya nodded. Not that she agreed with Big Sky's philosophy, but at least he had a better view of things other than 'brood over the fact that Oversight's first foray into space would be to perpetrate a massacre- if necessary, of course'. It was certainly one that would have let her sleep a little better at night.

The two of them were just a pair of Oversight personnel among many in the hangar. It had been expanded since the omnic attack five years previous, and now housed nearly twenty VTOLs similar to the one Oversight had back then. Some of them were used for diplomatic transport missions, the heavily armed and armoured craft being enough to deter all but the most determined and well-quipped attackers. Many were used to transport Oversight's field agents, the roster having being expanded massively in the preceding half-decade.

And then there was this special craft, built to exacting specifications and incorporating a great deal of technology only Oversight's top metallurgists, engineers and scientists knew about. But while its stealth capabilities and weaponry were impressive enough, they were not really all that different from more conventional equipment- more advanced, to be sure, but nothing special. What really set the H77RS 'Firebrand' apart from its more conventional cousins were the near-impossible graphene alloys it was made of, capable of withstanding extreme temperatures and heavy weapons fire while staying light. The plating also allowed the ship's designers to make the ship as airtight as possible while allowing it enough freedom of movement to remain agile in both atmospheric and vacuum conditions.

In other words, it was the result of many of Earth's greatest minds directing the expenditure of Earth's rarest resources to create the pinnacle of vehicular engineering- all with the aim of invading the moon.

There were days when Satya wondered if Vishkar would ever take her back, if she would even entertain the idea. This was the first time she actually felt serious about considering the possibility. Before she could get too deep into her thoughts, though, she heard a booming, mechanical rumble of a voice from behind her. “Heh, I thought you'd like it!”

She turned around to face the speaker; it was only polite, after all. In response, the man who called himself [Praetor](https://overwatch.gamepedia.com/Praetor) gave her a short salute which she returned. In the hustle and bustle of the hangar, Satya didn't quite catch the soft hissing of Praetor's respiratory equipment coming from within his armour until he brought his massive, 7-foot bulk up next to her. “Praetor,” Satya said, nodding slightly as her hand returned to her side. His real name was Lucas Rex VII, but he preferred 'Praetor' for reasons that Satya could more than understand. “Are we setting off already?”

“You're just aching to go too, huh?” Praetor said. “Sorry to disappoint, but mission time's still the same as it ever was, three days from now. Right now, we're still waiting on a response to Doc Winston's messages. Guy thinks he can still talk Hammond or whoever's in charge up there into surrendering peacefully,” he snorted. “You ask me, if those apes wanted to talk we'd have heard from them years ago. But hey, Winston's the guy in charge of the mission,” he shrugged, “and what he says goes.”

“You sound like you can't wait to fight,” Satya said, both unable and unwilling to keep the disapproval from her voice.

“Hey, don't get me wrong,” Praetor said, holding up his hands. “I think a peaceful solution'd be great, but I'm not going to cry into my Happy-O's if we have to start shooting.” He shook his head. “Those apes killed an entire base of scientists, and I doubt anyone's gonna cry over them if we have to get rough. What do you think, Big Sky?”

“I think... I ought to go take a look at how things are going,” the pilot said, and hurried off to the Firebrand. The sound of servos grabbed Satya's attention, and she turned around to see Praetor shaking his head.

“Hmph, coward- can't stand 'em,” he hissed, and turned to Satya. “You sure you want that guy as a pilot? I mean, we've got others-”

“Big Sky has been a faithful, loyal member of Oversight for years,” Satya replied. “I would trust him with my life, and I suggest you do so too, _Specialist,_ ” she said, her eyes narrowed.

Praetor goggled at her for a moment (at least, that's how Satya interpreted his momentary silence), and she wondered if she somehow managed to push another one of his buttons- until he nodded slowly. “Understood, Lieutenant,” he said, a note of genuine respect in his voice. He even bowed slightly, before letting out a small laugh. “See, if Big Sky had a bit of your backbone, ma'am, I wouldn't be so worried,” he added, before holding his hands up. “But I do get the point, ma'am, I won't keep harping on it anymore.”

“See that you do not,” Satya replied.

“Yes, ma'am,” he said, when he perked up a little. “Ah, damn, nearly forgot why I came here in the first place,” he said, reaching for his chest. A storage panel in his armour opened, and slot out a holopad which he handed over to Satya. “The Commander wants your opinion on a weapon design he's considering. Full report by this evening, he said.” He saluted her again, and made a smart about-turn before walking back into the base proper. 

Satya looked at the schematics on the holopad, and reflexively found herself recoiling a little from the absurd design it showed. It wasn't the fact that it was a weapon schematic, though that did play a small part in her revulsion. After all, she'd done more than her fair share of weapons research both before and after joining Oversight, despite her personal misgivings.

Instead, it was her pride as an architech, as an artist who worked with light and energy, that made her balk at the design displayed before her. She looked at the company name displayed above the schematic and gave a knowing, resigned sigh. CREO was a tech company renowned (and some said, infamous) for equipment that were revolutionary in their design and excellent in performance, but were very high maintenance- assuming they didn't burn out or surge energy unpredictably.

The design before her certainly had their trademark ambition, that much she was willing to admit. Though it was a simple laser cannon, the likes of which was present in just about every modern army, the arrangements of the weapon's focusing lenses and energy chambers was exquisitely (and some, a.k.a. Satya, might say recklessly) done. The beam it created would be of exceptional strength- and that was the problem. A laser working on the level of precision and quality the schematic called for wouldn't just burn itself out on the first shot, but run the risk of literally melting down, maybe even exploding in its wielder's hands.

Even so, despite the absurdity of the design, its sheer ambition made Satya reflexively think of ways to make it work, but try as she might, she couldn't think of anything. The only way out she could see in the weapon design's favour was its economy of scale- the larger it was, the more stable and energy-efficient it would be. But for it to be truly effective, it would be far too large for a soldier, maybe even a team of soldiers to transport easily. Maybe it could be used as a vehicle-mounted weapon... She shook her head; by then it'd still need another vehicle to carry its energy supply. Worse still, for the weapon to completely practicable, completely efficient, both it and its battery would have to be truly massive- maybe even building-sized. 

In the end as far as Satya could see, whoever thought up this weapon should be given a bonus for their vision, and a stern-talking to for wasting people's time on trying to make it work practicably. Now all that was left for her was to put that into writing and let Commander Morrison chew out whoever had the temerity to propose such a thing. Wait, no- she had time to show this to Torbjorn; if he hadn't seen it already, she thought she'd cheer him up with the joke of a weapon.

She bid Big Sky farewell and made to move back into the rest of the base, her mind similarly returning to the subject of Praetor, and those like him. As effective as Oversight's more aggressive hiring practices were, they certainly let in their fair share of troublemakers, or so Satya felt. True, [Phreak](https://overwatch.gamepedia.com/Phreak) wasn't so bad, if a little hard to parse at times, and once Satya got past his appearance, neither was Reaper. But Praetor couldn't keep his mouth shut, and the less she had to think of [Recluse](https://overwatch.gamepedia.com/Recluse) the better.

She sighed again. It wasn't as if she really had any say in who Oversight recruited. HR handled the more mundane applications, while Commander Morrison personally took charge of recruiting those with more... unique skill sets. Best she could hope for, as far as she could see, were that newer recruits were a little more stable.

* * * * *

“You're going to get us all killed.”

“Naw, mate, naw! It's the best, most brilliant plan that ever existed! Really, Hog, when have I ever let you down?”

“Hold on, I have a list.”

The two men walking along the streets of Boklovo were unusual, to say the least, standing out even in the dedicated 'artists and foreigners' district' near the university. From their matching but ill-fitting sweaters with the Kurjikstani flag and coat of arms on the front, their mismatched size, their sheer _loudness_ compared to the stoic attitudes of the Kurjikstani people around them, and not to mention the metal peg leg the smaller of the pair had, it was impossible to not miss them. Which was exactly what Jamison 'Junkrat' Fawkes was counting on, and what his... associate, Mako 'Roadhog' Rutledge was afraid of.

“Pfeh, you worry too much, mate!” Fawkes said. A pair of women walked by; they weren't exactly winners by Junkrat's book, but he gave them a pair of finger-guns and a saucy smile all the same. One of them rolled her eyes, while the other began to pick up her pace, motioning for her friend to do the same. _Yeah, that's right,_ he thought, _just another pair of dumb loudmouthed tourists, that's all we are, yeah._

_This plan's perfect!_

He looked up at Mako, who was visibly rolling his eyes behind the mask he habitually wore. “Come on, Hog! Smile! I know you can do it! I've seen you do it!”

“Really?”

“Nope!”

Jamison turned his attention back to the road they were walking down- or more precisely, where it led. The building ahead of them seemed innocuous enough, no different from the severe, blocky buildings all around it. Far beyond it in the city centre were the towering skyscrapers and glass towers that every modern city seemed to have these days, and which Marshal Hamidov made sure his capital (and nowhere else in Kurjikstan) boasted. But the building before them was what really interested the two men, even if Mako didn't show it.

Russia was going to invade, that much everyone knew. Marshal Hamidov certainly did, and he was gearing up for a fight, which would of course put Boklovo on the front line, seeing as it was barely a hundred miles from the Russian border, and right on the edge of the Black Sea. The upshot of this was that if and when the Russians attacked, they would be able to do so from both land and sea, which in turn meant that the fight for Boklovo would be hard, desperate and the perfect fight to run away from.

Which was why the Junkers were in Boklovo in the first place. A month before, Hamidov forced his ministers, generals, and even family members (though to be fair, they were the majority of the former two categories) to liquefy as many of their assets as his spies could identify and turn them into gold, jewels, even land deeds. If it was wealth in some physical form, it was fair game. Anyone who fled before, during or after the fighting, would forfeit their wealth to whoever won Boklovo. Of course, the Marshal ensured this by keeping them in a secret vault somewhere in the city.

Secret, that is, except to a distant nephew who had a few more connections that his uncle thought he had, one set of connections leading him to the people who helped plan the vault, and another set leading him to the Junkers. The plan was simple: blow up the building they had been scoping out, which was one of several candidates for the secret vault. If there was nothing inside, they would still be paid and cause a distraction for the other teams working in the city. It wasn't the first distraction job the Junkers had pulled, and it wouldn't be the last. And if it _was_ the vault building, the potential payday was even greater. No matter what, Jamison got paid, which was all it took for him to like the plan.

“Y' know,” he said, gesturing for Mako to follow him into a nearby restaurant. “You should look on the bright side of all this, 'specially if it works out,” he added as he sat down. Mako didn't reply at first, instead letting Jamison order some [Khachapuri](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Khachapuri) for the two of them. “There could be big things ahead of us, y' know. Big things! Big, big things! Bigger'n you even, and that's saying something!”

“Yeah? Like what?” Mako said, folding his arms. 

“We could go legit after this job!” Jamison said, then saw the look in Mako's eyes. “Well, not 'legit', legit, yeah, but we'd definitely be able to pick up some better gear, fight us a better class of wankers,” he said, his eyes darkening for a second. “Like those golems back in Tibet-”

“Nepal.”

“Whatever, one of those countries where they sit about wearing dresses and drinking goat tea and going 'ommm' a lot, one of those places.” He paused just briefly enough to take the drink a waiter served him and a bite out of his food. “Mff wmff f'gnnmh take those golems on, we're gonna need better stuff. EMPs, incendiaries- some real ace gear, not this bodgy kit we've been lugging about. This job could set us up for life, Hog! For life!” he said, spewing egg and bread all over his partner's sweater.

Maybe that was why Mako was unimpressed. “More like setting us up for twenty to thirty, no time off for good behaviour,” he grumbled.

“Bah, you're such a pessimist, Hog!” Jamison said. “That's why I'm the planner, see! I've got the optimism, the drive, the focus! You've got to have it up here,” he said, pointing to his head. “Right here,” he added,” tapping his chest. “And down under!” he finished, standing up and crotch-chopping, “before you become one of the world's real movers and shakers!”

Mako snorted. “Well, I'm shaking, that's for sure.”

Jamison sat down, grinning. “And if everything goes to plan- and they will, trust me on this- by this time next week, so'll the rest of Boklovo,” he said, his voice low, his grin wide.

* * * * *

The night time serenity of the Busan neighbourhood was shattered all through the neighbourhood as the door slammed inward. Between his grey beard shot through with a few remaining black hairs, his craggy, wrinkle-lined face, muscular build despite his age and eyes alight with fury, the old man looked like the avatar of some long-forgotten war god as he stormed into the house to the living room. A young woman sat in front of the TV screen, its glow the only illumination in the room. Her hands were wrapped around a controller, her fingers dancing across the buttons. With her headphones on, it would have been easy to believe that she was oblivious to the outside world- were it not for the fact that said headphones were hanging loosely around her neck.

“Hana!” the old man cried out, holding up a piece of paper. “What is the meaning of this?!”

Hana Song glanced behind her grandfather, seemingly not registering the old man's fury. Only the white knuckled grip on her controller betrayed what she felt. “You shouldn't leave the door open, grandfather,” she said nonchalantly. “It's not a safe neighbourhood, you know.”

“Oh, I see,” the old man said with mock cheerfulness, which dissolved in the next instant. “Is that the reason you signed up for the police force?!” he said, slamming the paper down on the table. “Answer me, Hana!”

Hana took a deep breath, giving her grandfather a defiant look as she replied. “Maybe? What's it to you? I'm an adult now, grandfather, I can make my own decisions-”

“ **DON'T GIVE ME THAT, HANA!** ” the old man roared, with such force that a group of concerned neighbours coming up the hallway backed away in fear. “You turned eighteen _last week!_ And not only have you tried to join the police force, you resigned from your team! How could you, Hana? Explain to me how and why you would throw away a comfortable future, just so you could play at being a policeman?!”

“I'm not playing!” Hana cried out suddenly, throwing her controller to the floor, shattering it as she stood up in front of the old man. She blinked away tears- she didn't have time for that, not now. “I can't do this anymore, grandfather! I don't want- I can't spend the rest of my life sitting in front of some dumb computer playing games all day! You saw how I did for my National Service, you know what I can do! They even let me pilot a MEKA thanks to my ratings! I can do this, grandfather! I have to!”

“NO! What you _have_ to do is stick with the safe, stable future you had before all- all this!” her grandfather screamed back, waving the papers in her face. “Tomorrow, you are going to apologize to your coach, and if your application to the force is approved of, you will decline as politely as you could,” he said, with exaggerated delicacy at the end.

“Or what? What are you going to do if I don't do what you say?” Hana said, pushing herself up towards the old man.

“Me? Why, nothing!” her grandfather said. “After all, what can I do? Remember, this house was paid with the money your video game work brought in. The two cars out there, that was you too, wasn't it? If you're willing to throw all that away for a civil servant's salary, be my guest! I still have my pension and my savings, I can find a small apartment somewhere while you live in squalor in some cramped cadet barracks! Don't tell me I don't know how _that_ is like!” he said, throwing his hands up in the air. 

“Yeah, well, Mom and Dad knew how that was like too, and that didn't stop them!” Hana retorted.

“No, and it didn't stop them from getting killed either!” her grandfather yelled back.

The air ran cold, and each of them was caught in the other's gaze, unable to either break their eye contact or take back the words they wished they never said. “I'm going to my room,” Hana said, her voice quiet and hoarse as she ran to the stairs. She heard her grandfather calling after her, but by then the pounding of her feet on the stairs and the heart in her chest drowned out all other sound. Her perceptions became blurrier, both thanks to the tears and the train of thought derailing even further. 

The haze in her mind began to clear only after she found herself lying in her bed, a stuffed bunny cushion in her hands. She clutched it even tighter to herself, both dreading and desperately clinging onto the memory of her father buying it for her after her first day of school. On the mantelpiece was a photo frame she didn't know she had turned down, and she put it back up, all while dreading to look at the picture in it, where she was standing in front of her house with her parents, the three of them smiling proudly in each of their respective uniforms. 

_I should have been here._

She almost didn't notice the door she had slammed shut behind her slowly opening. “Hana?” her grandfather whispered, gingerly pushing the door open. “Hana, I'm sorry,” her grandfather said. “I didn't mean what I said.”

“You did,” Hana said flatly, wiping away tears that wouldn't stop coming, no matter how hard she wished them to.

There was a short silence, then the creak of wood as her grandfather took the chair from her study table and sat down in front of her. “All right, I suppose I did,” he said. “And why wouldn't I? I have buried my daughter. I have buried a man I was proud to have called my son. And now the only family I have left wants to join in their footsteps!” He sighed. “Can you blame me for being angry? For being afraid?”

This time it was Hana's turn to be silent. “Sorry, grandfather,” she said. 

“It's ll right, Hana-”

“But I'm still going to join the police force,” she said, her tone firm despite the choking sobs she made now and then. Her grandfather actually jumped a little, leaning back in shock. “Mom and dad died helping people,” she whispered. Recalling the moment later, not even she could really tell whether she was talking to her grandfather anymore. “I have to-”

“You don't have to do anything!” her grandfather insisted. “If you want to help people, you can do a charity stream! Or have some of your endorsement money go to a charity of your choice! There's no need to risk your life like that!”

“So you're saying mom and dad died for nothing?”

“No, of course not!” the old man said. “But-”

“But nothing, grandfather,” Hana said. “I want to _do_ something, grandfather. Something solid, something I can point to and say 'I did that- with my own two hands, I did that',” she said.

Her grandfather goggled at her a moment, then gave her a sad smile. “Unstoppable Iron Walker: Blades of the Loyalists,” he said. “I played that as a kid too, you know.”

Hana smirked, and laughed sadly. “If you have to crib from someone, might as well crib from the classics,” she said, wiping away the last of her tears. “I wasn't lying when I said I was sorry, grandfather, but I have to do this.” Her voice was quiet, but if anything, the steel beneath her words had grown stronger. “I was playing Crab Battle when... when it happened,” she said, her voice cracking for a moment before she went on. “And Park didn't even say anything until after I won the tournament, after I secured the sponsor's bonus,” she said, her eyes narrowing with the mention of her agent's name, eyes which she then focused on her grandfather. “You get why I left now?”

Her grandfather sighed; he had the look of both someone who was going to say something else, and someone who knew that it would be useless to do so. “I just... I just worry, Hana,” he said, and all of a sudden, he slumped, and Hana could see each of his eighty years weigh down on him all at once. “I can't help it.”

Hana reached across to him, and gently took his hand. “Hey, it's not all bad,” she said. “I'm going to sign up for the MEKA program- it's much safer than being a foot cop, I read about it online,” she said, doing her best to reassure him. “And besides...” she said, hating what she was about to say, especially since it was probably going to be true. “I probably wouldn't be sent on the really dangerous jobs,” she added, releasing her grandfather's hand to grab something next to her parent's portrait. 

The can Hana grabbed was sickeningly pink, with Hana's face next to Pachimari's. “Can't have anything happen to the official face of Pachi-Cola, can they?” Hana said, doing her best to smile as she waved the can in front of her grandfather's face. She hated the prospect of remaining nothing more than a pretty face, a symbol for the recruitment posters, but that was something she could handle later. Right now, reassuring her grandfather took priority.

Judging by the small, knowing grin he gave Hana, he wasn't fooled one bit, but appreciated the effort anyway. “You are so much like your mother,” he said, wiping away a few tears of his own as he took the can and placed it back on Hana's table.

“I'll take that as a compliment,” Hana said. She took his hand, and the two of them let the silence fill the room until Hana fell asleep.


	4. The Dark Side Of The Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads-up: There is a single use of the word 'retard' in the text. Please note that it is meant to reflect on the character, and doesn't mirror my actual views in any way. If it seems exploitative or disrespectful in any way, please inform me so I can correct it, as that is not the tone I'm aiming for in this chapter and the story as a whole. 
> 
> Thank you for your time and patience, as well as your reading this story!

_I am going to die here._

_And I don't care._

As morbid as the thought was, the prospect of death genuinely did not bother Satya. She wasn't going to let it. Not at this time, not in this place.

Her eyes were clenched shut, her ears filled with nothing but a roar that consumed the universe, the hand of a gentle God gently crushing her to death. Someone was screaming somewhere; Satya didn't know where they got the breath from. For Satya it seemed like every single breath was being squeezed out of her lungs, leaving her with none to spare for lavish luxuries, like screaming out the strange mixture of joy and terror she felt at that single moment.

Then forever ended, replaced by a lightness that infused every inch of her.

Satya's lungs exhaled the breath she wasn't aware she had been holding in, and took in the air she wasn't aware she needed. She blinked her eyes one, twice, her brain needing a moment to process the images that were coming in. She wasn't alone in the Firestarter, though she did sit at the head of the personnel bay- the privileges of rank and all that. Next to her was Winston who, like her, was blinking rapidly and shaking his head. Satisfied that he was all right, Satya ran her gaze across the other members of the ship.

Praetor didn't seem to be moving, though Satya's interface told her that the man was still alive; presumably the suit he wore protected what was left of him from the G-forces of their liftoff, and was locked in position as a safety precaution. Sombra was busy being sick into a bag, but gave Satya a wan smile and a thumbs-up when she caught the Lieutenant looking at her. Right at the back of the ship, Lena sat hooked into a cylindrical chamber, in the middle of a swirling faint web of chronal energy. Like Sombra, she gave Satya a thumbs-up when she caught her gaze. Finally, Satya gave Torbjorn a visual check-up. Though he seemed remarkably unaffected physically, as evidenced by his sipping from a flask he'd taken out from his pocket, he didn't seem at ease mentally, as evidenced by his sipping from a flask he'd taken out from his pocket.

“Is something wrong, Torbjorn?” Satya asked. “This is not the time to be drinking,” she sighed, then blinked twice once she realized just how sternly she had said that. “Wait, I didn't mean-”

“No, no, it's all right,” Torbjorn said. “I just need to calm my nerves a little,” he said, then gave a short, nervous laugh. “That's what happens if you know first-hand just how experimental the technology in the Firestarter is. Oh, that reminds me,” he said, turning to Lena. “Are you all right in there, girl?” he asked, his brow furrowing.

“Yeah, 'sfine,” Lena said, grinning. “I have to say, having me insides sucked out's a lot less screamy than I'd thought it'd be!” she laughed, the traceries of chronal energy coming from her accelerator flaring a little brighter for a moment. “Seriously, I'm fine,” she said, and tapped her goggles. “Readouts look fine, and apart from a little tingliness, I'm all right.”

Satya sighed with relief as she heard a rumbling from beside her. “Thank goodness,” Winston said. Then he saw the look Lena gave him. “I assure you, I had every confidence that the chronal drive would work,” with a hastiness that Satya found a little difficult to believe- and judging by the expressions on the rest of her teammates, so did they. “But there's always that margin of error and...” He sighed. “In my defence, I distinctly recall explaining this to all of you before we left, and none of you objected then.”

“You sounded much more confident then,” Torbjorn replied, scowling slightly.

“Science stuff goes over my head,” Praetor said.

Sombra shrugged weakly. “I know computers, not physics.”

“I thought you had it handled,” Lena said, her lower lip quivering a little.

Winston gaped and goggled as he searched for a response and failed, instead choosing to turn to Satya with a desperate look on his face- whether for her answer or moral support, she didn't know. For her part, instead of answering Satya opened a channel to the cockpit. “Big Sky,” she said as calmly as she could manage. “Winston and Lena want to know how the chronal drive is working.”

“I understand fully, ma'am. Just give me a second to open the comms,” Big Sky said, his tones professional. “Good, ah, evening, ladies and gentlemen. Wish I could give you a more precise time, but considering we're way above anything resembling a horizon- well, it's the best I can do,” he said through the personnel bay's intercom. The professional was gone, replaced by a calm, self-assured hotshot. “Seems like we're getting the butterflies back there. Well, I'm no tech, but I can assure you like the layman I am that the Firestarter's purring like the happiest cat that ever slept after a bowl of cream, and we look to be right on schedule.” 

His demeanour cracked a little as the impressed astonishment he felt broke through briefly. “Though considering we're making a three-day trip in less than an hour, I guess I can't say anything else. You did a good job with this chronal gizmo, Doctor Winston. Same goes for you, Lena.”

Lena breathed an audible sigh of near-relief. “Thank goodness that's sorted, then,” she said somewhat quietly, and Satya suspected it was more to herself than to Big Sky. “It _is_ sorted, right? No rattling or anything like that?” she said with a carefree levity that didn't quite mask the tension beneath. Not that Satya could blame her; the Slipstream experiment that made her harness necessary wasn't all that different from the chronal engine the Firestorm was using right then.

“Nothing to worry about, Lena,” Big sky replied. “Like I said, we're making good time, and there's nothing abnormal on my readouts.”

“All right... all right,” Lena replied, again in the soft tones that meant she was trying to reassure herself again. “Thanks for the report.”

“No problem, ma'am,” their pilot replied, then cut off the intercom. A moment later, Satya heard him through her comms again. “Heh, I think I did a pretty good job there,” he added. “I did mean what I said though- everything's fine. Hell, things are better than expected. Don't you worry, Lieutenant, we're gonna get there safe and sound.”

“Understood, Big Sky. Thank you,” Satya said, and cut the comms, only to find herself staring right at a pitiful-looking Sombra.

“Can you tell him to slow down a bit?” she moaned. “I think I'm going to need another hour,” she said, and threw up into the bag again.

*

Built in the waning days of the Omnic Crisis, when it was all over save for the mopping up, the Horizon Lunar Colony was either a haven of scientific exploration, or a nightmare where humanity attempted its first steps to despoiling space as it had Earth, depending on who one listened to first. Whatever it was, the first word that came to Satya's mind of the distant place she saw projected in front of the team from external camera feeds and satellite imagery, lunar structures growing steadily clearer as the light blue chronal shell around the Firestarter dissipated, was 'abandoned'. She held up her cybernetic hand to project the last known hologram of the colony which Winston had taken as he left, and they looked virtually identical.

“The base is still intact- fully intact, even after all these years,” Winston said, his voice quiet, but heavy with both tension and anticipation. Before Satya could ask him what he meant, Winston patched himself into the comms. “Big Sky, be careful- raise shields and watch out for lasers, maybe even micro-missiles.”

“Something up, Doc?” Big Sky asked.

Winston gestured to the projection. “The moon is tidally locked, which means that the same hemisphere always faces Earth,” he began slowly, gradually speeding up as he warmed up to the subject. “Which is why Horizon was built on this side, because that is the hemisphere where we could be assured of minimal meteorite impact. Note I said 'minimal' as opposed to 'nonexistent',” he said.

Satya nodded, the implications becoming clear. “Which means that it has anti-asteroid defences, and the means to detect them,” Satya said. “Which probably means they know we are coming. Since we haven't received any communications from them since Winston escaped, I think it would be safe to assume they do not want visitors.” She was going to continue, when she heard the whirr of servos in front of her. “Yes, Praetor?” she asked the cyborg, who was raising his hand.

“Yeah, we've got unfriendlies on site who've got the defences up and running- but so what? Just means we ruined their surprise party for us,” he said. “We went through this in the briefing, didn't we? What's there to worry about?” he asked.

There was a snort from Torbjorn. “Yes, you listened to the briefing, well done,” he said, clapping sarcastically. “Now if you had actually paid enough attention to remember it properly, you would have recalled that we didn't plan for the base defences to be fully operational.”

Winston nodded. “The laser cannons and kinetic launchers can be operated from the base without the need for verification, but the missile defences are supposed to only go active after the colony's administration requests and receives authorization from Earth.” He shrugged. “Transporting missiles all the way to the Moon is quite expensive, after all. In any case,” he said, going back to the hologram. “The fact that the base is as intact as it is means one of two things: either Horizon somehow escaped the majority of meteor activity that we have observed hit the Moon, which is highly unlikely, in my professional opinion, or...”

“Or Horizon somehow has full control over all its defences,” Satya finished grimly.

“...eh, still not seeing the problem here,” Praetor replied. “So what if they've got their missiles online? Even if they didn't use it all on space rocks, the Firestarter's good enough and fast enough to tank the few hits they'll manage to shoot off, right? ...Right?”

Torbjorn sighed. “All right, good news first,” he said. “The Firestarter can withstand Horizon's laser defences, no problem,” he said. “And its sloped armour can deflect railgun shells with some difficulty, but anti-meteor missiles?” He shook his head. “Those things are designed to drill into an asteroid before detonating, which is what will happen if we're lucky.”

“ _Basta!_ If we're lucky?!” Sombra groaned. Her stomach had settled down a short while before, but she still looked wan and weak. Now she looked even worse as Torbjorn's words sank in. “What's 'unlucky' then?”

Torbjorn gave her a mirthless grin. “Then it's slightly more painful- but only slightly. After all, being sucked out a hole the size of a small plate shouldn't take too long.”

“Torbjorn, enough,” Satya said sternly as Sombra began dry-heaving again. “Sombra, we discussed this in the briefing,” she said. “You will have to disable their defences and jam their targeting remotely, just as we said.”

“Yes, yes, you want your pet cyber- _bruja_ to work her magic, I get it,” Sombra scowled, unhooking herself from her seat and drifting to the cockpit. “Hey, Big Sky, let me in!” she said, knocking against the cockpit door.

Satya went back to looking at, then rotating the holographic map of the colony in front of her, trying to look for a good entrance with Winston's help, when she heard Praetor's servos again. “Yes, Praetor?”

“Permission to speak freely, ma'am?” he asked. When Satya nodded, he gave a short glance to the cockpit door Sombra had closed behind her, and went on in a quiet tone of voice. “You're really gonna let Sombra talk to you like that?” he asked.

“Why not?” Satya asked with genuine bewilderment.

“Well...” he began. “It's disrespectful.”

“Oh come on, guv,” Lena said. “She's had a rough go of it coming here, she-”

“I was talking to the Lieutenant,” Praetor said coldly.

“Who would have told you the same thing Lena did,” Satya replied, and if Praetor's tones were cold, hers were practically glacial. The cyborg almost seemed to shrink into his seat as she went on. “Every one here has earned their place in the team, and as long as each of us does our duty, we should be willing to excuse our teammates. Understood?”

“Understood, ma'am,” Praetor said, saluting. Satya sighed inwardly; as comforting as Praetor's respect for rank and orderliness was, she hoped that his stiff back wouldn't cause any more overt problems, at least not while the mission was active. Before she could say anything else, the intercom crackled into life again.

“Big Sky here,” their pilot said, and there was an undercurrent of tension in his voice. “Got some good news and bad news. Good news is that Sombra's cleared the way for us. Bad news is,” he said, and Sombra could feel the Firestarter accelerating again, “she doesn't have a lot of time to keep it open or make a new one.”

“Wait, so what-” Satya began, when Big Sky cut her off.

“Hang on!” he said. The hologram in front of Satya blinked off, and she jerked forward in her seat as the roar of Firestarter's engines filled the personnel bay. Despite the initial shock, the ride didn't seem too bad, their craft only rumbling slightly as it pushed forward- whether this was due to its sturdy construction, the lack of air and gravity acting on it, or a combination of both, Satya didn't know. She was just thankful for-

The ship shook- not violently, but enough to make the harnesses dig into their wearers. “What was that?” Lena gasped.

“Laser!” Torbjorn said through gritted teeth, which ground against each other as another bolt hit the Firestarter. “Don't worry!” he added, his clenched teeth now bared in a smile. “I told you, she can withstand th-”

The Firestarter dipped suddenly and briefly right before it barrel rolled violently, the screech of metal scraping against metal audible in the personnel bay matched only by Lena's scream. “And that?!”

This time, Torbjorn didn't smile. “That... that was a missile too close for comfort,” he said, scowling.

The Firestarter shook again, this time accompanied by the sounds of explosions close to the hull. “Don't worry! Don't worry!” Big Sky said over the comms. “We're not getting hit! Just countermeasures, ladies and gents! Though, ah, you might still want to hang on!” Satya heard him take a deep breath. “It's time to get crazy.”

“Get crazy?!” Sombra screamed at him, audible over his comms. “ _Tonto loco_ , what do you mean cra-aa- _aa- **AAAT ARE YOU-**_ ”

The comms cut off, replaced by the whirring and hissing of hydraulics echoing in the bay, similar to how the Firestarter sounded as it lifted off from Earth, its wings retracting as it left the atmosphere, before extending again to ensure full chronal coverage for the craft.

No, not similar, Satya realized with a sinking in her stomach.

Identical.

She lurched forward again as the front end of the Firestarter flew upwards, the roar of its lower thrusters drowning out all sound inside of the bay, which Satya was grateful for. As undignified as it was, she didn't want anyone to hear her screaming. Then again, considering everyone else was, maybe it wouldn't have been all that out of place. She lurched again when the rear end of the Firestarter scraped against something, the tail end's structure groaning in protest.

And then, they landed.

Satya was nearly thrown out of her seat by the impact. The world seemed like it was ending, the roar of metal being annihilated coming from outside the craft, combining with the crash of breaking glass and even explosions, an apocalypse crammed into the space of a single second, one that ended with another violent jolt. Breathing heavily, her body gasping for the breath she wasn't aware she had been holding, Satya couldn't scream even if she wanted to when the sides of the Firestarter slid open with a loud hiss. Looking outside, she could see that it wasn't just her recent experience that left her with a profound sense of vertigo; the Firestarter had landed leaning upright at a somewhat steep angle. 

“Deploy,” Satya whispered, though her conscious mind wasn't quite aware why.

“Wha...?” Torbjorn asked, apparently trying to blink and failing.

“Deploy!” Satya repeated, with a lot more volume and clarity, now that the realization that they were in hostile territory finally sinking in. “Oversight, arm up and deploy now!”

She didn't wait to see if her order had been obeyed, instead quickly snapping her harness open and leaping out the open side of the Firestarter. The fire sprinkler systems were still active, but instead of water, they deployed clouds of carbon dioxide. “Rebreathers on, everyone,” she said, putting on a mask that was hanging at her side, identical to the ones given to the rest of the team, save for Praetor. 

Looking around, she could see, even in the flickering light of the ruined local lighting systems, that they had landed in the ruins of what seemed to be an observatory. Even now, the image of the Earth, slightly distorted by a forcefield, disappeared behind a pair of observatory doors as they closed with a loud clang. Satya's boots crunched on broken glass and shattered plastic as she looked around, her eyes scanning the rubble and small fires that had somehow survived the carbon dioxide suffusing the room. Her eyebrow rose when she saw a small, delta-shaped robot methodically rotate across the floor in a futile effort to clean it.

The clang of steel on steel drew Satya's attention back to the Firestarter. Praetor had been the next to emerge, the twin autocannons on his forearms whirring softly as their barrels rotated slowly, while a click accompanied his suit's three-barrelled grenade launcher locking into place above his left shoulder. Behind him, the Firestarter had landed as Satya had suspected, its front end having smashed through, then lodged into some kind of control room on the second floor of the observatory. The grey shell of the craft was pockmarked with scorch marks from Horizon's defence lasers, while the edge of one of the retracted wings still had paint from a missile that had just barely deflected off it. Behind the Firestarter, the floor of the observatory as well as the ruins of the telescope that they had obviously crashed through were furrowed with a similar blackened trail where the ship's retro thrusters had tried frantically to slow it down. 

A hissing sound from above drew both Satya and Praetor's attention, but they lowered their pointed guns when they saw that it was the cockpit opening to reveal Sombra, who flailed her arms a moment before falling out of the cockpit into the control room above them. The steady stream of ragged Spanish cursing she gasped at Big Sky wasn't enough to drown out the inner voice in Satya's mind trying to get her attention. Before she could say anything, Winston loped up beside her with a perplexed look on his face, and vocalized Satya's own suspicions. “Where is everyone?” he asked, his voice slightly muffled by his rebreather.

He had a point. As Satya and the rest of the team looked around, they could see that they seemed to be the sole living beings in the base, or at least their little section of it. “Probably deeper in the base,” Satya said, raising her pistol to her shoulder. “We cannot afford to wait.” Her hand went to her communicator. “Sombra, Big Sky- status report.”

“Not dead yet, no thanks to that _cabrón_ over there,” Sombra hissed.

“I actually agree,” Big Sky groaned.

“Big Sky, you have military training, and I think your survival kit has a weapon. Pick it up- we'll need your help. Don't argue with me, Sombra,” Satya said, right as Sombra was about to start screaming. “Hold for further orders.” She looked to her cybernetic arm and tried to pull up the hologram of the base's layout. “Winston, do you know a quick way to get up there?” she asked, pointing to the control room where Sombra had dropped.

“There should be a stairway leading up in that room,” he said, pointing to an adjacent chamber. From the looks of it, it might have been a waiting or relaxation room. “Assuming the- the others haven't made any sweeping changes since I was here,” Winston said, biting his lip.

“It is a chance we will have to take,” Satya said firmly, glancing to the side where a pair of door led outside to some sort of corridor. “Lena, Torbjorn,” she said, nodding at her teammates. “You two go upstairs and rendezvous with Sombra. Try to do your best to remain stealthy- the enemy may know we're here, but not necessarily where or how many we are,” she said, then went back to her comms. “Sombra, Big Sky, once you meet up with Lena and Torbjorn, head towards the main control room as quickly as you can. Should you meet serious resistance though, halt and wait for reinforcements. Understood?”

“Aye, ma'am!” Lena said with a quick salute. “C'mon, Torb, you heard the lady!” she said, grinning, then zipping off as the engineer followed behind, mumbling angrily under his breath.

“I hope you know what you're doing,” Praetor said, watching the two run off, and presumably upstairs.

“The best I am under the circumstances,” Satya replied. “Let's go.”

Weapons at the ready, the three of them entered the corridor just outside the observatory. Despite the devastation in the observatory itself, Satya noted with some relief that the corridors seemed relatively unharmed apart from a layer of moon dust brought in from the outside. Their briefing mentioned that Lucheng had built this place to last, and Satya was happy to see that part, at least, bore out. It certainly made that nagging worry at the back of her mind about Praetor's grenade launchers go away, or at least dull for a moment.

Beyond the corridor, Horizon's interior seemed well-lit, if completely empty. Outside, part of the Earth could be seen as the base curved. Satya idly wondered how the gorillas had managed to maintain the base for so long, despite the lack of supply ships coming in. A moment later, she received an answer of sorts.

“Lena here,” she heard her comrade whisper through the comms. “Seems like some of the doors leading deeper into the base have been welded shut, and Torbjorn doesn't have the right kit to bust through. Nothing Sombra can do either- the panels have been blown open too. What's that, Torbjorn?” she asked, and Satya heard their engineer say something, his words lost in comm static. “Torbjorn says they weren't blown open, but carefully disassembled, and have been for yonks. Dunno if that's important. We'll keep proceeding along the upper walkways anyway. Haven't spotted anything else yet.”

“Understood,” Satya replied, her finger on her ear's commbead as she, Winston and Praetor fanned out into the massive chamber ahead of them. “Nothing down here either. Keep us updated.”

“Roger that,” Lena said, and cut the comms.

Now that the channel was cut, Satya could focus on the structures ahead of her. What she had thought was a massive pillar in the middle of the chamber actually turned out to be a dimly-lit canteen, above which towered a mass of machinery and electronics. She knew the latter because the ceiling had been ripped open, and what was left had been carefully jury-rigged, though to what purpose she couldn't quite tell. Something like that was probably Torbjorn's area of expertise anyway.

“Still warm,” Winston whispered, having run his finger through a tray of greenish-yellow nutrient slurry, which he put it in his mouth, then grimaced. “Still awful.”

The whirring of Praetor's autocannons seemed to increase slightly in volume. “So they can't have gotten far.”

“Enough chatter,” Satya said. “Focus.”

The commissary having been thoroughly investigated, Satya and her team turned their attention to the rooms around them, an empty classroom and a supply vault, all empty. Satya was beginning to think that the base was abandoned, that the gorillas had somehow died out long ago from a lack of supplies, accidental venting, some kind of accident. Then she noticed the outlines on the floor of the supply vault; paler shapes where boxes once stood for a long time, now recently moved. She glanced towards the exit of the supply vault, back outside- and noticed that the classroom and supply vault opened out onto the same passageway leading to a central room, and a suspicion began to form. Her grasp of tactics was shaky, she knew that, she wasn't a military officer, despite her rank- but she could spot when details were out of place.

“Lena?” she asked quietly, one hand on the commbead in her ear, the other held up to keep Winston and Praetor in place. “Where are you and your team now, if I may ask?”

“Taking the stairs down,” Lena said, her whispering still audible over the comms' crackling. “Every door up here's been sealed, and the sparky bits in their control panels removed. Right now, we're entering what looks like an abandoned classroom. Why do you- oh, there you are!”

Satya looked out the entrance of the supply vault, and saw Lena standing in the classroom with the rest of her fireteam. The English woman waved to Satya, and began to jog over to Satya- right through the exposed corridor. Satya began to shout a warning as the sinking in her gut began to intensify, but by then it was too late. There was a crack in the near distance, and the last thing she saw before being blinded by a flash of blue light was Lena looking in the direction of the sound-

-then reappearing next to Satya, chronal particles still swirling around her. “Bloody hell, that was close!” she said, and with good reason: Satya could still see the molten crater where Lena had been standing, its edges still dripping molten metal. Lena wasn't the only one swearing either; Big Sky was cursing up a storm as he pushed the other members of the fireteam back- and from the other end of the room, Satya could hear several voices she didn't recognize as well. They were a muddled jumble, but she did make out a “We need them alive, you idiot!”, and that didn't bode well.

“It's a chokepoint,” she hissed, looking out the entrance. In the chamber beyond them, on a balcony railing overseeing said room, were a group of gorillas. Each of them wore improvised armour and wielded equally makeshift weapons in their massive hands, but one particularly large gorilla lugged around what seemed like a small jet engine with a series of lenses kludged together at the end instead of a turbine. His teeth were bared in a savage smile, his eyes wide open with a fanatic's triumph.

“FREEEDOOOM!” he roared, lifting his gun once more and sending a stream of bluish energy crashing into the wall near the supply vault. To her alarm, Satya saw that not only did the thick plastic cover around the vault's metal shell melt, but the metal wall itself glow red from the inside. She tried shooting back, but her photon bolts needed time to travel to their targets, and to her chagrin the armed gorilla managed to tweak his weapon in time, erecting some kind of force field around himself and laughing at Satya's efforts to wound him.

“Winston,” she said, turning to the one gorilla she knew she could count on. “Are there any routes deeper into the base, or that we could use to circle behind them?”

To her chagrin, the gorilla shook his head. “I'm sorry, Lieutenant,” he said, shaking his head. “I took the liberty to ask Lena about the routes she found closed off, and as I suspected they were the only alternate routes into the base proper,” he said. “It seems we're stuck here.” His eyes widened. “Unless...”

The comms crackled into life again. “Oh _jeeefeee_ , great and wonderful leader~!” Sombra said in a sing-song voice. “I do hope you have a plan!” she added, in rougher tones.

Satya hissed through her teeth, dreading the negative answer she was about to give, when she saw the crater in front of her, where Tracer had just been standing. An idea began to form in her mind, and she hissed again, but for an entirely opposite reason. “I do,” she said, and looked behind her, where her fireteam and Lena stood, looking to her for leadership. “I just wish I didn't.”

*

The sounds of gunfire dulled in Lena's hearing as she took out the simple, gold (or rather, gold-plated) locket from beneath her suit, beneath her chronal harness, and looked at what lay within. 

She was in a white dress, Emily in a suit, and behind them was Winston, who had decided to surprise the two women with a very uncharacteristic photobombing. Of all the moments she loved sharing with Emily on their wedding day, one of the best was them both deciding, simultaneously and independent of each other, that they would keep the picture. 

Now she looked up at the rest of her teammates in the room- Satya was frantically assisting Winston in adapting her shield technology. Praetor was periodically leaning out the door, firing an autocannon at the gorillas on the other side, the big gorilla there having received similarly-armed backup. On the other side, in the empty classroom, Sombra and Big Sky were doing something similar, popping out to fire potshots. Behind them, Torbjorn was using his forge hammer and arm to refashion any and all metal objects he could, turning them into small 'packets' of nanomachine-fueled self-deploying armour which he was frantically tossing at the people poking their heads out.

In short, it had become a figuratively bloody mess, and Lena was perhaps the one woman who could keep it from becoming literal. She hoped that Satya was right, that the rebellious gorillas thought she had been literally vaporised. Lena also hoped that she was right herself, that she had seen what looked like an airlock next to the supply vault she had been caught in. And then there was the fact even if her memory was right, none of them even knew where, if anywhere, Lena would be able to reenter the base. Not even Winston knew; he'd mostly kept to the base's physics wing.

“It will have to do,” Satya said, holding up the vaguely disc-shaped amalgam of technology in front of her, looking it over with a critical eye. “Praetor, Lena, are you two ready?”

“Just give the word and I'll be good to go,” Praetor said, his autocannon smoking as he saluted the Lieutenant. 

“As much as I'll ever be,” Lena replied, her body tensing as she activated the chronal fields around her, fields that would serve as a crude spacesuit for what was to come. Satya's plan would need split-second timing from all involved, but Lena knew damned well that nobody did timing better than her.

She didn't have long to wait. Praetor had barely finished his salute when they heard the loud hissing and clicking from the other end of the room that told them the gorilla's big gun needed to cool off. There was still a hail of small-arms fire, but Praetor stepped out with the confident stride of someone whom bullets couldn't bother. As he did so, Winston threw out the heavy makeshift shield generator Satya devised with him. 

The flash of the shield generator as it activated was as bright as that of Lena's chronal harness as she blinked through the shield at the same time. Skidding to a halt in front of the airlock doors, she glanced behind. Standing within the shield's radius were her other Oversight squaddies, none of them doing anything to draw attention to Lena. Perking her ears, she listened for any sign that the gorillas had seen her- no “She's flanking us!”, no “You missed, idiot!”, not even a “What was that?”

Time to press the advantage. Lena looked for the unlocking mechanism, and was thrilled to see that the control panel for the airlock seemed in good condition, unlike the ones she saw before. The doors hissed open, and Lena had to spend several agonizing seconds as the chamber beyond cycled the air inside it back into the base. That said, when the doors opened, her impatience faded, at least for a moment, as she looked upon the vistas ahead of her.

Under most circumstances, the grey expanse and dark skies ahead of her would have inspired terror, but the knowledge that she was looking upon the Moon itself filled Lena instead with a sense of awe and grandeur. Only the flickering of the chronal field around her reminded Lena of the exact reason she was there, and it was with a profound regret that she tore her gaze away from the sight ahead of her.

Only to see another airlock, this one at the top of a slope to her left, cycle and open.

*

Hammond's gaze ran across the lunar landscape, barely giving it a second's attention. He supposed it awed him when he first saw it as a simple gorilla, but he didn't remember much about those days. Not that he didn't want to; it would have certainly been preferable to his all-too-clear memories of the scientists experimenting on him and his kin, or of that traitor Winston running away to live with their tormentors.

His nostrils flared in his helmet, temporarily blurring the glass. His brothers and sisters begged him not to do this, or at least wait until Marie had finished jury-rigging more suits for the others, but the sight of Winston coming back, and in the obvious service of humans, was too much! He had to pay, and Hammond was going to collect on that debt.

He turned around, and his eyes narrowed. The downward path ahead of him leading to the other airlock was clear, save for the lunar rover Hypatia had abandoned when she saw the human craft approaching. That, and a small puff of dust. He didn't recall Calvin or the others holding down the fort mentioning anyone entering the airlock on the other side, but that was no reason to not be careful.

He lumbered down the slope over to the small dust cloud, the electrified metal pipe in his weapon hand sparking in the airless void as he gripped it by its rubber handle, cannibalized from another rover's steering wheel. Whatever kicked up the dust was small and indistinct in shape, but it was certainly no meteorite. He reflexively bared his teeth in a snarl as he looked at the rover. He wasn't like most of the others, he knew that- it was why Simon and Hypatia made him their second-in-command. Unlike the others, they alone thought of the humans as a credible threat, and he wasn't going to make the mistake his captors did by underestimating the enemy. 

With a roar of fury, Hammond lifted the rover with his other hand, daring whoever lay beneath to face him. When the dust cleared, however, there was no trace of anyone beneath the vehicle. He let go, but in the low gravity of the moon, it would still take a moment for the rover to drop back down, a moment Hammond didn't give it as he clambered up to the top of the slowly falling rover. Even then though, he couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. 

Hammond's eyes narrowed again, but this time in confused suspicion. His instincts were telling him he wasn't alone out here, but all his senses were telling him he was. _Something_ had to have kicked up that dust cloud, after all-

“Hammond!” Calvin yelled over the comms. “Where are you? You better get a move on if you don't want me to hog all the fun!”

Reflexively turning back to answer, Hammond was about to snap back when he saw the base shake a little, and heard Calvin's roaring laughter over the comms. As he watched, a piece of moon rock was knocked off the base's roof, landing on the ground and kicking up a small cloud of dust.

“Calvin!” he said over the comms. “Stop firing that gun of yours at full power! You're shaking the base apart, you idiot! You better not fire like that when I get there!” Hammond privately doubted that even Calvin's fully-powered blasts were enough to do any kind of actual, lasting damage, but right now he felt like yelling at someone. Besides, Calvin did remind Hammond that he was taking too long, and that had to count for something, at least.

“Sorry, boss.” Calvin said.

Hammond groaned, and leapt off the rover. He thought he saw something else out the corner of his eye, but dismissed it- he didn't have the time to investigate another falling rock.

*

Lena sighed in relief as the rover fell back down, kicking up small clouds of slow-moving dust as they hit the Moon's surface. It had been a job and a half trying to keep out of the gorilla's sight, blinking here and there as he investigated the rover. The oppressiveness of the air she was breathing told her that it wasn't just chronal energy she was starting to run out of. As the airlock doors closed around the gorilla, she gasped out a short warning to her comrades, and made an agonizingly slow run to the airlock ahead of her, the one the gorilla had come out of.

Though she made it before her air ran out, between her exertions and the air cycling in the airlock meant that Lena's lungs were burning as she gasped her way back into the base. She looked around frantically, knowing that if any gorillas were around, or even saw the opening airlock door and came along, she wouldn't stand a chance. There was a loud crackling from behind her, and she clenched her eyes shut, positive that it was the last thing she'd ever hear.

However, when the crackling roar had died away and Lena was aware she was still intact, she looked around her, properly taking in where she was. The room looked like a control room similar to the one she'd met Sombra and Big Sky in. Slowly clambering to her feet, she took hold of a nearby console and dragged herself up, where she saw how the battle was progressing.

The sight made her chest tighten again.

The gorillas on the railing (which, Lena noticed, was directly connected to the console room she was in), were firing slower this time, but they weren't doing so out of desperation. Down below, where Lena's friends were, the fight wasn't going well. 

The shield generator had shut down, and was a sputtering wreck among the melee on the lower level. The gorilla that had passed her was swinging around his electrified club with a strange mixture of wild abandon and finely-honed skill. With each swing, he threw off Torbjorn's attempts to build his turret (or rather, rebuild it; the wreckage of another turret lay scattered around the combat zone), and he was so close Winston couldn't use his electrical projector gun. For their parts, Sombra and Big Sky couldn't seem to get a shot in. Praetor was doing his best to fight the gorilla off, but Praetor was simply too big and heavy to effectively fight his agile opponent. Only Satya seemed to be doing anything, but between trying to take down the gorilla and handle the team, Lena could see the fatigue setting in.

Of course, the gorilla wouldn't be able to last forever, but his fellows seemed to have fewer qualms about firing into the melee. Then again, their chances of hitting a comrade were much less than what the Oversight squaddies faced, and they were milking that advantage for all it had.

There was no time to lose. Lena sprang into action, her hands working the device at her belt even as her legs thrust her forward. One of the gorillas saw her, but they didn't have the time to say anything before Lena reached them. With a mad grin, Lena slid herself under the legs of the gorillas before hooking her hand under the last gorilla's cannon and swinging herself onto their back. While the sounds of melee went on below them, there was silence on the railing, at least for a moment, as the three gorillas looked up at the brightly-dressed madwoman giving them a manic grin, a wink and a thumbs-up. “Hi, everyone!” she said, as her thumbs-up turned into a two-fingered salute.

That second of reprieve quickly shattered as the gorillas raised their weapons at Lena with roars of fury, but at the precise moment they fired Lena simply rewound herself back to the entrance of the control room. She took a second to enjoy the confused looks on the gorillas' faces, right before one of them looked down and had just enough time for their eyes to goggle and mouth to drop open before the pulse mine detonated. As per Winston's instructions, its payload had been rendered non-lethal before they launched, but even as a massive flashbang grenade the mine worked perfectly, especially since it incorporated an electric shock blast similar to Winston's shock projector.

Two of them were sent flying to opposite sides of the railing by the blast, while the largest gorilla, the one with the biggest gun, was sent flying up and over the metal bars to land on the floor below. Only his laboured attempt to get up before slumping back down unconscious told Lena that he was still alive. That was all Lena could get from a short glance, however- by that time she was already rushing down a flight of stairs from the control room to get to the larger fight below.

When she got there, however, she saw she needn't have bothered. Without the constant rain of fire from above, the Oversight agents had managed to turn the fight in their favour. The gorilla with the electrified club was obviously trying to do his best, but the five-to-one odds were just too much. By the time Lena had reached the fight, a savage blow from Praetor's arm had knocked the electrically-charged bar out of his hands, and the cyborg had grabbed the gorilla by the neck, throwing the latter to the ground. As the gorilla looked up at Praetor with a defiant glare, Praetor raised one arm, the autocannon on it cycling-

“NO!”

Lena wasn't sure who shouted first- her, or Winston. She was sure she was the first to raise her guns, while Winston had settled for grabbing Praetor's arm and shoving it upwards. The cyborg glanced at Winston, then at her. Despite the faceless plate that served as his 'face', Lena still found herself involuntarily taking a step back, such was the sheer fury she felt coming from Praetor's glare.

“Secure the prisoners, quickly!” Satya said somewhat breathlessly and with a hand pressed to her side, apparently not noticing or caring about the little drama playing out between Lena, Winston and Praetor. 

“Wait, secure the prisoners?” Praetor asked. “We don't have the capacity to-”

“That was an order, Praetor!” Satya growled.

“As- as you say, ma'am,” he replied, moving towards the gorilla on the ground in front of them.

Satya exhaled, though whether it was out of relief or exhaustion, Lena couldn't quite tell. “It's all right, just a sprained muscle,” she said to Lena, apparently noticing the concerned stare she was being given. “Go with Winston and secure the upper railing,” she added. Both Lena and Winston ran upstairs, Lena keeping her guns trained on the groaning gorillas as Winston snapped mag-cuffs on them too, apologizing all the while.

“Traitor,” one of them managed to groan out. “Come back to sell the rest of us out, Winston?”

“He can't help it, Marie,” the other gorilla snarled. “It's Earth- you know, the place with all the peanut butter,” he said with a cruel laugh.

Winston was silent throughout the whole thing, but Lena could see the strain he was under. “Hey, don't let it get to you,” she said softly, patting him on the shoulder.

“Thank you, Lena,” Winston said, nodding at her with a small smile.

“Lookit that, Winston's got himself a human mate!” one of the gorillas laughed. Winston snapped back with a fierce scowl, when Satya's voice came back over the comms. 

“If you're done securing the prisoners, group up,” she said. “We still have a base to take.”

*

Praetor was beginning to chafe.

Not literally, of course- what was left of him was comfortably nestled within his cybernetic shell, gel packs and gyroscopic suspension ensuring both his physical comfort and that his organs stayed in place. Mentally though? He hated to admit it, but there was some pressure building up.

He knew he was in an odd place for it; the room the Oversight squad had decided to hole up in for the moment, the one right behind the chokepoint they had just taken, looked to be some kind of playroom of all places. Soft padding in softer pastels covered the floor and walls, with small, brightly-coloured plastic handholds jutting out of the latter. There was even a tire swing hanging from the ceiling- too high for a regular human to reach, but just the right height and distance for a climbing gorilla to leap from the walls to catch.

It was hardly the kind of place to have pensive thoughts about, especially since Torbjorn had fortified it with a decidedly un-playful turret, but considering the squad Praetor thought Oversight had saddled him with...

Lieutenant Vaswani wasn't so bad. True, Praetor had his doubts when he heard she was retarded, but she seemed to be have her head screwed on straight, and if she liked arranging beans in a jar in her spare time or whatever autistic people did, Praetor wasn't going to say boo. Besides, she knew when to put her foot down when she needed to, and the rest of the squad seemed to listen to her. That was all that should have mattered, and if she had been a soldier, Praetor would have been okay with that. But she wasn't a soldier, and that was where the problems started.

Take what she was doing, for instance. Praetor was grateful that his extensive cyborg modifications meant that the rest of the team didn't see the derisive snort he'd have given if his face was still attached when Satya announced her plan. Credit where credit was due, he supposed- at least Satya had a reason beyond some kind of impractical, wishy-washy sense of mercy for taking prisoners. But having Sombra hack into the comms while Satya delivered an ultimatum for the gorillas to surrender? Why would they give up an independence they fought to hard to achieve before?

Then again, she did have a condition. She thought the universe ran in an orderly way, why wouldn't everyone else? It wasn't her fault she couldn't see what Praetor could and had- that sometimes, you just couldn't negotiate with some people.

And when that happened (as Praetor was sure it would), what would happen with the prisoners? Would they leave them behind, and thus a threat if even one of them slipped their bonds? Leave someone to guard them, reducing the squad size? It wasn't even a guarantee that the gorillas wouldn't escape under those circumstances. Kill the hostages, when they didn't have the stomach to do so before? As far as the cyborg could see, that was like locking the stable doors after every animal inside had run out after the building was set on fire.

That said, whatever orders she gave, Praetor would execute whether he liked them or not- that was what soldiers did, after all. His 'fellow' agents on the other hand... all right, Torbjorn and maybe Lena were all right. They were professionals who did what they were ordered to, when they were ordered to, though Lena tended to get on his nerve. Winston though? If he weren't here, then maybe the squad might have had been able to get something done without all this messing about with prisoners. Big Sky was a great pilot, but once he was out of the cockpit he was near-useless. And the less he thought about Sombra the better- she was everything he hated in a soldier. Why Oversight kept outright criminals like her and Phreak, Praetor would never know, and neither did he want to.

He gave the area another visual sweep, more out of boredom than anything else. Beyond the only exit that Praetor could see, was what seemed to be a hydroponics bay of some sort. Lush vegetables grew under bright lights as they rotated in some kind of greenhouse chamber, while shelves of smaller herbs grew next to the walls.

For a moment, Praetor felt a twinge of longing for the sensation of eating again, which he pushed down into himself with some irritation. His new body had taken some getting used to, but he'd mostly got the hang of it. Sometimes though, he got these little pangs of... nostalgia? Some kind of phantom limb syndrome, except for sensations? It didn't really matter what he thought the correct term should have been, only that it hindered his performance, his adaptation to being the future of human-

“Specialist Oxton, reporting back!” Lena said breathlessly as she popped into view.

“Damn it, Oxton!” Praetor growled, lowering his autocannon arms. “Another second and I'd have shredded you! Announce your arrival!”

“Sorry, big guy! Had to keep radio silence and all that!” she said with her usual irritating cheerfulness. Praetor wondered if it was some kind of coping mechanism for trauma he didn't know about. It'd certainly make him feel better if he knew she had a reason for being so damned chipper. “Hey, boss!” she said, waving at Satya. “Any luck?”

A frustrated Satya shook her head. “Unfortunately not,” she said. “They aren't even answering.”

Lena nodded. “I'm not surprised,” she said, some grimness entering her usual jovial tones. “I've had me a bit of a look-see, and from what I saw they might not even have their radios on,” she said. “Can you show me the map again?” Satya tapped her wrist, bringing the holographic map of the base back up, and Lena began pointing at rooms in the layout. “Right, so we're here in the gym, looks like,” she said, pointing to a chamber. “Can't say it's changed much,” she said, looking around. “Anyway, it looks like the hydroponics bay right here's the only way in,” she said, pointing to a large chamber on the map, then pointing directly outside. It certainly seemed like it was the right size to Praetor. “There's a small oxygen generator here,” she said, pointing to a small side room that split off from the hydroponics bay, “but they all lead to the same place.”

“The engineering bay,” Satya said grimly.

“Where the gorillas will have the full resources of a small nano-factory at their disposal, maybe even armoured vehicles to use as weapon platforms,” Torbjorn grimaced as he looked at the map, then back at their prisoners. “No wonder there were only four of them,” he said. “They were just buying time for their friends to fortify their positions.”

“Figured it out, have you?” the big one with the electric club (Hammond, if Praetor recalled properly) said, grinning savagely at the Oversight agents. “And you could barely handle four of us, even with your dirty tricks,” he said, glaring at Lena, who returned the expression. “How are you going to beat the others?”

“Winston, how many more?” Satya asked.

Winston was silent for a moment. “Assuming the... the worst,” he said softly. “There should be at least another twelve, maybe fifteen gorillas.”

This time, the whole squad was silent. “...look,” Big Sky began. “The Firestarter's in somewhat good shape, and it's got the strength to punch through the shield around the obserrvatory. Give me and Torbjorn a minute to fix things up, and we could on our way back to Earth-”

“NO!” Praetor said, surprising even himself. “I mean... I mean we have a mission here, and we can finish it.”

Hammond laughed, and the other gorillas joined him. “Oho, look at the big toy soldier, thinks he can take us on!” Hammond said.

Before Praetor could reply, he was halted by Satya's raised hand. “Sombra, can you jam their comms?” she asked. “I think I have a plan.” Once Sombra had filled the local comm net with white noise, Satya explained what they were going to do. Once again, Praetor found himself surprised, this time by the fact that he liked her plan. Sure, the plan would still end in Oversight's defeat, but it'd be a valiant one, assuming they pulled it off. And whatever victory the gorillas would have would be a Pyrrhic one, which suited Praetor just fine. 

Also suiting Praetor just fine was the horrified glare their prisoners were giving them. “You'll kill us!” the largest one, the gorilla with the huge gun, cried out. 

“We will return with supplies,” Winston said, but the other gorillas were having none of it.

“Oh, yes, supplies!” Hammond snarled. “Supplies- and soldiers, and scientists! All perfectly arranged to reenslave us!” Hammond roared. “What fine company you keep, traitor! Pillagers and ravagers all! You have killed us, Winston! You have killed us!”

Now that things were beginning to go his way, Praetor was feeling a little benevolent. Besides, Winston was reaching out to his now-weeping friend, a distressed expression on the Doctor's face. Praetor couldn't have that- the Doc needed to be focused on the mission. “Don't let it get to you, Doctor,” he said, placing a hand on Winston's shoulder. “We're all trying to do the right thing here, and sometimes? That requires sacrifice.”

Winston looked like he was about to reply, but then his eyes ran across Praetor's metal shell, and he nodded slowly, unsurely. Praetor didn't mind the staring, really; if anything, he was grateful to the South African corporate mercenaries who turned Lucas Rex VII into Praetor. If Winston and others like him wanted to think of that as some kind of noble sacrifice- well, who was he to argue?

“Is everyone ready?” Satya asked, raising her pistol. A chorus of affirmatives and nodding came from the squad- some less enthusiastic than usual, Lena's and Winston's chief among them. Once again, Praetor was grateful for his expressionless metal faceplate. If he still had his eyes, they'd be rolling like the wheels on the bus. He made sure everyone knew just how enthusiastic _he_ was by revving up his autocannons, and locking his grenade launcher into place. “All right then, let's go.”

The Oversight agents marched into the hydroponics bay- and made no move to charge into the engineering bay just beyond. Instead, they began to lay waste to the hydroponic stations in sight, energy bolts roasting plants and melting glass, webs of electricity shorting out vital systems and setting small fires, while bullets and grenades turned vital machinery into scrap. As Satya had suspected, one reason the remaining gorillas hadn't moved further up and fortified the bay was because they didn't want this exact scenario playing out. Perhaps they had gambled on Oversight being either so focused they'd bypass the hydroponics bay on their way to the engineering bay, or that the squad would have been too exhausted by the first chokepoint that they retreated to their ship. Either way, it was a gamble Praetor was glad to help them lose.

Of course, Oversight couldn't have its own way the whole time. The apes had been engineered for heightened intelligence, after all, and they must have realized that if losses were unavoidable, they could be minimized. Their own counterattack began in what seemed to Praetor like seconds after the squad began its assault, but what his suit's recorders stubbornly insisted where whole minutes. _Guess time really_ does _fly when you're having fun,_ Praetor thought.

Also on the cyborg's mind was the thought of Phase 2. As crippling as it would have been to simply wreck their food supply, Satya didn't want to settle for just that. There was still the small oxygen generator room just off to the hydroponics bay's side. Wrecking that wouldn't suffocate the whole base, it was far too small for that, but it would certainly put a dent in any attempt to repair the hydroponics bay if this section of the base lacked breathable air. It was ruthless, it was practical, and considering how little time Satya had anticipated they would have to do it anyway, it was a job only Praetor and his big guns could manage.

It was a testament to the chaos of the unfolding battle that the seven-foot tall walking metal brick that was Praetor managed to sneak away from the combat to the oxygen room. The only part of the mission that he disliked was that he'd have to activate his Hunter visual program. Apparently it was adapted from an ex-Oversight sniper's own equipment or something, he didn't care. He did care about the mild headache he got whenever he had to use it; the interface hadn't been perfected, and while every use of it helped Dr. O'Deorain calibrate it, it wasn't an experience he liked to repeat. Like it or not though, he'd have to use it to identify the most vital sections of the generator room if was to complete his mission on time. 

And so it was with some reluctance that Praetor walked into the generator room. Large windows showed the lunar expanse just outside the base, while benches were placed just next to it. Praetor supposed that as the room with the freshest, least recycled air, it might have been a popular relaxation spot. He could certainly see no obvious generators, but that wasn't surprising. According to Winston, and backed up by the base's schematics, the generators were actually mounted in the wall to muffle their noise, hence the reason Praetor and his armour-piercing autocannon shells were needed. He leaned down a little to psych himself up and prepare for the short wave of pain to come, then activated his Hunter visor-

_Oh?_

_Oh, what's this?_

_Oh. Oho. Ha... ha... hahahaha-_

Praetor reflexively clasped his hand to where his mouth would have been to stop the laughter rising up within, but such was his sudden joy that he didn't mind the reminder of his still-human days. He didn't mind his headache, nor did he even mind the call from the Lieutenant. “Praetor! Are you there? We don't have much time left! Hurry!”

“Yes, yes! You're right!” he said, as if coming to a great realization. “Hurrying as ordered, ma'am!” he said enthusiastically, rushing not to scan the walls, but for the door that led to the engineering bay. With a quick peek to ensure no gorillas were about to come through, he quickly closed the door, then gave the control panel a good, hard punch, caving it in a shower of sparks and metal shards. He didn't actually know how secure that made the door, but it certainly made him feel better, as impossible as that might have sounded. He then ran to the door he'd come in through and closed that as well, though in far gentler, conventional fashion. He'd need a way out himself, after all.

Then he walked to the middle of the room, raised his arms, even flexed them a little in a self-pleasing dramatic flourish- then practically threw himself downwards into a kneeling position, his arms tearing through the sheet metal. With a triumphant roar, Praetor ripped the metal panelling on the floor out. When he saw what lay beneath confirmed his suspicions, and he was sad that all he had was an expressionless metal faceplate, because he'd have really loved to have seen just how much more shocked the gorilla and her children below would have been had he been giving them his most winning smile.

Even as he reached down and pulled the protesting female gorilla out, her blows raining uselessly on his metal shell, he wondered just how one woman could have so many kids. Then it hit him- what if they weren't just her kids down there? The gorillas have had a lot of time to get busy up here, after all. The thought warmed what was left of Praetor's body; it just made things _so_ much better.

“Sombra!” he said into his comms as the mother gorilla kept futilely beating on him. “Patch me into the base's general comm net! Loudspeakers included, if you please!”

“Praetor? _Qué mierda?!_ ” Sombra cried back, the sounds of gunfire in the background as loud and clear as her speech. “Aren't you supposed to be destroying their oxy- is that a gorilla? Are you under attack?”

“Just patch me in, Sombra,” Praetor said. Count on her to ruin his vibe- then again, Praetor mused, when has anything in the history of the world gone to plan?

There was more cursing in Spanish, then a crackle of static. “All right, you're patched in,” Sombra hissed, her breathless voice coming in loud and clear over the base loudspeakers. “I hope you know what you're doing.”

Praetor didn't answer her. Instead, he threw the gorilla trying to strike him at his feet, before planting one of his feet on the gorilla's hands and pressing down. Her short cry of pain echoed through the base; Praetor wasn't sure, but the gunfire seemed to subside for a moment. Then his pressure sensors told him someone was striking his leg, albeit with a similar lack of success. However, it was the cries coming from his new assailant that definitely reduced the amount of combat he heard.

“Stop it! Leave my Mommy alone!” the tiny gorilla furiously beating its arms against his hip screamed. “Put her down! You're a bad human!”

“Keep... keep at it, kid,” Praetor laughed, but it was a warm laugh, a human laugh. “You'll find out how bad I can be.”

“Praetor? What are you doing?” he heard Satya ask him, but her voice seemed... distant, as if he was hearing her from the bottom of a great pit. “Praetor! Answer me!”

“Just doing what we came here to do,” Praetor replied, but his voice seemed equally distant, even to him. It had a soft, dreamlike quality to it, as if he wasn't really talking to Satya anymore. Even though his suit did the breathing for him, his voice still sounded breathless, quiet- Lucas Rex VII taking over from Praetor, if only for a short while. “I'm securing hostages, just like we did back there, remember?” Lucas continued in the same tender near-whisper, even as he increased the pressure on the gorilla's hands and her cries of pain threatened to drown out his words. “We have a mission to complete, and I can help us complete it to completion completely.”

Another moment of silence, punctuated by the baby gorilla's defiant grunts and its mother's own pained groans. The noise of the former only grew as the first gorilla called upon the other children who'd been hiding under the floor to assault Lucas. They climbed all over him, tiny fists beating at Then Sombra's voice cut over the comms. “Phreak? Phreak, if you've hacked into Praetor's-”

Another short laugh from Lucas. “Don't worry, Sombra, I'm still myself,” he said, shaking off the gorilla children on him with a few swift flicks of his limbs. An outside observer might have said he did so with 'contemptuous ease', except that would have required actual contempt behind the actions. “I was just making a joke. Sorry, I'm not a very funny guy.”

“Praetor!” Winston called over the comms. “Praetor, stand down!”

“Listen to Doctor Winston,” Satya said urgently. “Stand down, Praetor!”

“You're not the boss of me,” Lucas said in a harsh whisper, taking his foot off the gorilla at his feet only to seize her by the neck. 

“What? What are you talking about?” Satya hissed back. “I am your superior officer, Praetor! Stand down!”

“I respect you, ma'am, I really do,” Lucas said, bringing the gorilla to his face, looking deep into her eyes so filled with hate. And fear. “But our orders came from Commander Morrison. We have a job to do. I aim to do it.”

The sounds of combat had picked up a bit, but only a little. Lucas would later find out it was because the few gorillas still at the front line weren't sure whether or not the Oversight agents they had been fighting were on their side. The general noise level though, that had picked up, mostly from the other side of the door that Lucas had closed off. Even as he half-watched there was a spot on the metal, slowly growing redder, and it was being joined by others. “Haven't heard a peep from your husband,” he said to the gorilla he was holding up. “Maybe he doesn't want to give me the satisfaction. Maybe he wants the first thing I hear from him to be the last thing I ever hear,” he said. “I get it, I really do,” he added kindly.

Then, without warning, Lucas slammed the gorilla into the glass window. Not with his full strength, of course, but just enough to crack the glass.

“Wait!”

Now there was an unfamiliar voice, ringing above the various orders to stand down from the Oversight team. What a pity, Lucas was just beginning to respect them. “Yes?” Praetor said. The spot at the door didn't seem to be growing any wider, and the rest seemed to be dimming already.

The gorilla he'd seized gasped, forcing the words through her tightened throat. “Don't let them win!” she cried out.

“They won't, my love,” the other voice said. It was similar to Winston's, but a little harsher, a little older. “As for the monster with my Hypatia and the children, I hope you understand that if you break that window, just as you broke the observatory dome, there will be a slight delay before the particle shields come back up.” His tones took on a note of savage, desperate triumph as he went on. “I'm sure not even your suit has enough air to keep you alive once you're sucked out into that environment. And if anything happens to Hypatia and the children, I guarantee-”

“No, no guarantees,” Lucas said. There was a hissing sound at his feet, and squeals of pain from the gorilla children there as they leaped away from them. Electricity sparked around his soles, air escaping from under them as it was squeezed out. “Hear that? That's me magnetically attaching myself to the floor. Your move.”

“Praetor!” Satya said, her voice cold. “If you do not stand down immediately, I will-”

“Was that Lena blinking I heard?” Lucas asked, perking up at the faint sound of imploding air in the background. “Are you trying to stop me from accomplishing our mission, Lieutenant Vaswani?” he said, rearing his arm back. Before Satya could answer, he slammed the female gorilla, Hypatia, into the window again. The small web of cracks became a network, and the baby gorillas at Lucas's feet screamed in terror.

“Don't do that! Papa said that's dangerous!” one of them said, whimpering.

“Lena, hold position!” Satya cried.

“Hypatia, no!” the gorilla speaking to Lucas screamed, a terrified cry echoed by the other gorillas with him. “Look, look, whoever you are,” the older gorilla said, all traces of confidence gone. “I'm sure we can make a deal-”

“Who am I speaking to?” Lucas asked, his tones now flat and cold. Looking at himself in the shattered glass, Lucas could see that his eyes were wide, his mouth half open. He didn't care. 

“What? My name is Simon, I-”

“Simon? The monkey who started this whole mess?” Lucas's open mouth turned into a mad grin. “No... no deal. Not yet.”

There were people saying other things, screaming them maybe, but Lucas didn't hear any of it. He heard the crash as he smashed the gorilla through the window, of course. He heard her scream cut off by the airless environment of the Moon, he heard that too, as he did the whoosh of escaping air. He was aware of how fast his body seemed to move of its own volition to catch a stray gorilla child; quite miraculous, really, how none of them died. He thought he heard laughter- his own, but the recordings never caught anything like that.

He looked dispassionately at Hypatia as she bounded back desperately across the lunar surface, trying get back into the base, but by then it was too late. The shields had already deployed, and while the Firestarter had the brute force to tear through Horizon's energy fields, Hypatia was just a mortal gorilla. Her hands beat desperately on the field, but while she gave a single desperate glance at the windows, she never once tried to break them. Her hand smacked against the glowing forcefield which took the place of the one window Lucas had smashed, and her child placed a hand against it while Lucas watched, blank-eyed. He did experience a brief fascination when he saw that, despite the immense pain Hypatia was in, she managed to give her wailing child a gentle smile, even as her fur started to smoke from the immense heat. 

_No. That won't do. I can't let her die like that._

Her smile turned into a mask of horror as Lucas seized up the gorilla child and prepared to smash him against another unspoiled window, an expression which made Lucas's smile grow a little wider. But right as he began to draw his arm back, the gorilla child crying for his Daddy, he heard someone speak from behind him. “Oh, hello, Specialist Oxton,” he said. “I thought Lieutenant Vaswani told you to hold position.”

“Put the baby down, you bastard!” Lena roared. She had drawn her goggles to her forehead, presumably because her tears were enough of a problem. “I said put it down before I put you down!”

“Your boots don't have magnetic attachments,” Lucas said. “You'd be sucked out. Your chronal field won't last very long. You'd die. Emily would miss you very much.”

Lena's aim wavered briefly, then steadied again. “I'd never be able to face her if I didn't stop you anyway,” she said in a low growl, before her voice rose to a roar once again. “Now put the kid down!”

“We have a mission,” Lucas said, turning his attention back to his reflection. “I have a mission,” he said, drawing his arm back. There was another new voice in his hearing range, something about alerts and disciplinary action and resisting arrest and other unimportant stuff. It didn't matter, basically. While Lena called for Torbjorn, Lucas took a moment to aim, and then-

“ **WAIT!** ”

Lucas's arm hovered in mid-air, the cybernetic limb locking into place. “Yes, Simon?” he asked softly.

“...what do you want?” the defeated gorilla asked.

*

There were five gorilla children in all. Satya supposed that the gorillas had chosen to keep their breeding numbers as low as possible to minimize resource usage, while hoping to maintain a workable workforce for the coming years. Of course, their numbers weren't anywhere near enough to prevent inbreeding, but Satya was no biologist, nor did she know what knowledge and tools available to the gorillas. For all she knew, they had the capability to prevent such things; their intelligence had been uplifted here on Horizon, after all.

Satya did her best to keep these thoughts in her mind, running figures, simulations and inventory lists through her mind as the Firestarter took off with the squad and gorilla children in tow, the latter mag-locked together. Their reality and practicality kept her from properly considering what she was actually doing. If she did so, she reckoned she would have gone mad.

When she and the Oversight team finally managed to reach Praetor, it was all she could do to keep Winston from tearing the cyborg apart with his bare hands. She doubted Praetor would have actually noticed in any case- the man seemed... not distant, nor did is systems seem to be malfunctioning, at least not from the cursory scans Torbjorn and Sombra gave him. If anything, the man seemed... _content,_ a realization that sent a thrill of terror down Satya's spine to twist in her gut.

She risked a glance at Winston. He took the success of their mission the hardest of all, and looked downwards in a thousand-yard stare. The gorillas hadn't said a word after Simon agreed to hand over the base, but if looks could kill, then they would have had to bring Winston home in a jar. Satya wondered if Winston harboured hopes of returning to Horizon, or at least reconciling with his fellow gorillas there. If so, both hopes had obviously been irrevocably dashed now.

Right in the back of the ship, Lena was trying her best to try cheer up the mag-cuffed gorilla children behind her, at least when she wasn't giving Praetor murderous looks. To her credit, she wasn't trying to do so with humour, but with sympathy and solace. Even so, Satya doubted any amount of soothing words would help the gorilla children, especially the one who had just lost their mother. That poor child wore a stare as blank as Winston's. As soon as they got back, Satya resolved to use what clout she could to bring Oversight's finest psychologists to help the children. As brilliant as Dr. O'Deorain was, her bedside manner left a lot to be desired.

Sombra and Torbjorn weren't doing all too well either, evidenced by the fact that they had both chosen to sit across from Praetor. The cyborg had been restrained himself, with mag-cuffs holding both his hands and legs together. His harness controls had also been overidden to prevent him from lifting it off himself. Still, the two Oversight agents kept their weapons ready in their holsters, unwilling to trust the silent man(?) across from them. Oddly enough, Sombra seemed to have been the only one to approve of what Praetor did; considering that she confided solely in Satya in a single, terse statement before keeping her silence like the rest of the team, she knew just how much that opinion was-

“What have we become?'

Satya turned to the side, where Winston sat still, staring at the floor. At first, she thought she'd imagined what Winston said, that maybe it was some pang of conscience causing her to hallucinate, when Winston spoke again. “What have we become, Satya?” he said, so softly Satya doubted anyone heard it. “I thought we were the good guys.”

“We still are,” Satya said, placing her hand on Winston's shoulder. “One madman isn't enough to ruin all that Oversight stands for.”

“...I wish I had your convictions,” Winston replied.

 _So do I,_ Satya thought. “I... I have to go report to HQ,” she said, undoing her harness. 

“Yes, do that,” Winston said, and Satya tried to pretend she didn't notice how Winston's knuckles tightened as his grip around his harness grew stronger. “Tell Jack about our 'successful mission'.”

Satya wanted to say something, anything, to make Winston feel better, but the words just would not come. Instead, she just floated off to the cockpit entrance. Inside the cockpit proper, Big Sky sat, continually adjusting his controls. Satya supposed it was inevitable; compressing a three-day trip into an hour meant a lot of quick adjustments. Even so, he managed a nod to Satya as she floated in and took the seat next to him. “So, uh...” he began. “That was... that was rough.”

“It was,” Satya said. “It was. Can you patch me to Oversight HQ? I need to report in.”

“Sure thing, Lieutenant,” Big Sky replied, and he flicked a few switched. “Just give me a second... let me slow down a bit, let our comms sync with conventional comm nets... ah, there we go.”

“Oversight HQ, this is Lieutenant Satya Vaswani,” Satya said. “Can someone patch me in- no, wait, just give him a message, she said, then listened to the frantic reply on the other end. “What do you mean, you cannot get a message to him? I know he's in Boklovo, but we can...” Her eyes widened as she heard what the person on the other side had to say.

“Something wrong?” Big Sky asked.

Despite the zero-G environment, Satya still found herself forced to slump back in her seat by an invisible weight. She turned slowly to look at Big Sky, a shocked expression seemingly etched onto her face, and said the one word that managed to chill her to the bone.

“War.”


	5. Crashing Kurjikstan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to put out! I wish I had an adequate excuse, but all I can say is that between Battletech and Pillars of Eternity 2, my spare time's been disappearing faster than I could cope with. I'll do my best to put out the next chapter quicker, I promise!
> 
> Also, for those of you wondering where I'm assuming Kurjikstan and Boklovo are, here's a crude map! The red rectangle covers the rough area of where I assume Boklovo to be:  
> https://imgur.com/zoqBJ7M

Kebir Hamidov, self-proclaimed Grand Marshal of Kurjikstan, was not having a good day. The man was pacing back and forth, wild eyes darting as stress began to take hold. The strain had also seemed to take hold of the man, turning his neatly groomed beard into a tangled mess, and making his piercing eyes all the darker thanks to the bags under them.

All of which suited Jack just fine.

Not that Jack couldn't sympathize, maybe even pity the man. Kebir's office was small, though efficiently and elegantly equipped, and now that Jack had some time to properly observe the room Jack could see that if anything, Kebir's office was even smaller than his own. The Grand Marshal's desk was nearly empty of personal effects; instead, various documents stood in neat stacks. In his Oversight officer's garb, Jack was also much better-dressed than the Kurjikstani leader in his far more spartan military uniform. Jack had only ever seen Kurjikstan's dictator on the news, where he wore so many medals on an extremely gaudy military dress uniform, he wouldn't have been surprised if Kebir was bulletproof.

In short, Jack definitely got the feeling Kebir was a man who actually took his job seriously despite his dictatorial trappings. That in turn meant that Jack felt inclined to actually like the guy, which in no way meant that Jack actually have to give half a damn about the man's problems. Especially if said problems included what seemed like every Russian who could stand up, see lightning and hear thunder standing at Kurjikstan's borders, ready to overrun the much smaller nation. And then there was Russia's Black Sea Fleet conducting 'military exercises' nearby. Sure, said 'fleet' was comprised of aging light cruisers and destroyers, but from what Oversight Intelligence had managed to glean, Kurjikstan's ships would be hard-pressed to fight the Swiss Navy, much less an actual fleet that had seen combat during the Omnic Crisis.

Yet for all its faults, Jack needed the country. Or at least, needed his agents inside the country. Before the end of the Omnic Crisis, Kurjikstan had bordered Siberia. Russia's reconquest of the latter nation had left their own manpower depleted, and the Siberian occupation was stretching their forces to near breaking point. Even if they did manage to conquer Kurjikstan, itself once having been part of the Russian Empire at its height, the response from the Middle Eastern nations would be swift, terrible- and most importantly, backed up by far more powerful economies. 

Even so however, both the Tsarina (or rather, her ministers- by all accounts, Aleksandra IV was actually a bit of a pushover) and the Industrial Advisory Council were pressing for an attack. It was easy to guess the intentions of nobles and ministers- their plans were rooted in both national pride and to continue what they had done in Siberia. If a lasting victory proved impossible, then at least it would show that Russia was still worthy of respect. The Council's reasons took some guesswork, but the smart money (and Oversight Intelligence) was on Russia wanting to seize the rich oilfields near the city of Baku, most likely as a peace settlement. And of course, both would want to see how the Middle East would handle such a blatant attempt to tip the region's balance of power.

In other words, the region was rapidly falling into chaos. Chaos which Jack intended to exploit; at the very least, he wanted to use the chaos to infiltrate agents into Russia. Going through Europe was just too much trouble; infiltrating Russia was hard enough, but going through Europe meant tangling with many nations' intelligence agencies, and there was only so much leeway an Oversight agent had before people started asking questions. However, there were many ways to exploit international tensions...

Jack's thoughts were interrupted when Kebir spoke up. “All right, all right, you win, damn you!” the Grand Marshal said. Stress seemed to have turned his once immaculately-groomed facial hair into a tangled mess, and his dark eyes were made darker by the bags under them. Still, Jack noted with some amusement, he attempted to inject some gravitas into his voice as he went on. “However, you will understand one thing, Commander Morrison: You must not speak of our deal to anyone! If anyone in my government realizes that I'm letting foreign agents, even Oversight agents, wander our streets...”

“My lips are sealed, Grand Marshal,” Jack replied, before leaning forward and holding Kebir's gaze. After all, the man wasn't the only one who could play power games, and unlike him, Jack had actual power beyond Kurjikstan's borders. “Just as long as yours are,” he said in a quiet, but firm tone. “Oversight is supposed to be an impartial organization, after all. Taking your side in a conflict, especially covertly, can be very risky for us.”

Kebir snorted derisively as he glared at Jack. “Do you think me a child, Morrison? Shall you tell me that the sky is blue and that water is wet next?”

“You'd be surprised at how uncommon common sense is,” Jack said with as sincere a sigh as he could fake. Not that what he said wasn't true, of course, but as precarious as Kurjikstan's position was, the Grand Marshal would be inclined to be cautious. More importantly, odds were that he'd might be more inclined to trust someone who was just as prudent. “Sorry, Grand Marshal, but I don't like leaving things to chance, even if it can prove insulting.” That too, was accurate. 

That too, was part of Jack's little gamble.

And judging by the approving glance Kebir gave him, it paid off. “Ah, I understand,” the man said, nodding slowly. “I understand fully. Fear not, I swear to you that not even Kurjikstan will know of the aid you have given her,” he said, Jack fighting the impulse to roll his eyes. He still liked the guy somewhat, and Jack wasn't going to argue against patriotism, but Kebir really was slathering it on a little thickly for his tastes.

Still, pissing the guy off wouldn't help. “Thank you, Grand Marshal,” he replied, standing up to shake the man's hand. “You know, this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” he said, right before everything went straight to hell.

* * * * *

Angela pulled the surgical mask from her face and let the cool air flow over her face for a moment before putting it back on as she stepped outside. Despite the sneaked glances and outright harsh glares she and the omnics received upon touching down a few days ago, the authorities had been surprisingly cooperative; while the hospital she and the omnics found themselves stationed in wasn't exactly state-of-the-art, it was far better equipped than most of the facilities they were given on other humanitarian missions. Then again, considering that many of Boklovo's doctors were the first to be evacuated as soon as Russian forces began advancing to the border, Angela found herself becoming increasingly leery of the price tag attached to the Grand Marshal's 'generosity'.

Her attitude wasn't much helped by the near constant stream of vehicles moving through the capital's streets, the vast majority of them military. Most of Boklovo's 'most important citizens' had already been evacuated- the educated elite, basically. That being said however, Angela was willing to begrudge the Grand Marshal himself some credit for staying behind even after all his ministers ran off.

But that still meant that most of the transports had left without the city's actual population, and the streets were packed with vehicles. The congestion was made worse by the military's constant demands on road usage, which clogged up the roads even further. Angela had heard of attempts by scared and angry civilians to demand the right of way, which ended after several cars were crushed beneath tank treads; thankfully with their occupants being given enough time to leave.

As the traffic situation became more and more nightmarish, however, Boklovans were taking to carpooling in dangerously overloaded vehicles with often sadly predictable results. Combined with the still-massive amounts of vehicles spewing smog into the air, the monks' little hospice was threatening to become swamped. Even with her Caduceus staff vastly speeding up their efforts, the Shambali were being strained- which meant that the supplies they had requested earlier couldn't come at a better time. Which was why, between the fact that even her staff needed some time to recharge itself, and that the Kurjikstani soldiers were still a little suspicious of omnics, it was only natural that Angela would have been chosen to supervise the supply delivery as the lorry pulled up in the loading bay behind the hospital.

And her supervision was sorely needed. The soldiers were roughly handling delicate crates of medical supplies, to say nothing more of the machinery. Exasperation twisted into fear as Angela saw one of the soldiers accidentally let a heavy metal crate slip from his fingers, and her long-dormant reflexes took over to send Angela dashing to catch it, even as her conscious mind caught up with her instincts to remind Angela that she wouldn't have the strength to actually take hold of it-

“Hold on there, I've gotcha!”

“Thanks,” Angela grunted as she strained to lift the crate on her end. The gruff voice coming from the other end of the box sounded familiar, but that was a question to be answered later, or at least once she had managed to transport the crate she was carrying inside. The soldier whose hands slipped at least had the decency to look a little sheepish, and lent his own arms to carrying the crate in. Even so, it took practically the whole squad to carry the crate inside the hospital, where it was carefully but unceremoniously placed in a pile of similar boxes. “” she said in her slow, deliberate Russian. “” she added curtly, turning to the soldiers. She would have been a little more courteous, but she wasn't really having the best of days.

Not that the soldiers noticed. Their CO nodded, gave Angela a crisp salute, and ordered his men out. Angela buried her face in her hands and sighed; part of her knew she should have ordered the men to help unload her equipment, but the rest of her shuddered to think of how they would have treated the supplies. Hopefully some of the other monks would have-

Her eyes bulged as she realized that she wasn't alone, and she turned to the man who had assisted her. “Oh, damn it, I'm so sorry, I didn't-” she began. The only reason her eyes didn't open any wider was because it would've been physically impossible. “Jesse?” she asked. “Jesse, is that you?”

“Gee Doc, I sure do hope so,” McCree grinned. He wasn't in his usual cowboy garb, instead wearing a black flak jacket over grey urban camo fatigues. Even his hat had been replaced by a dark green beret. “At least, between you, me, and the monks here. Outside, I'm just another merc pounding the streets,” he added, winking.

“Another infiltration mission, then,” Angela said, nodding as she messaged the monks to come down. Considering the political situation, she wasn't surprised. And while there weren't a lot of 'outside consultants' willing to fight in Boklovo, there were enough that one more dishevelled American wouldn't seem all that out of place. “I don't suppose you can tell me if you're alone, can you?”

“You know me, Doc- I always work alone,” McCree said, grinning as he leaned against a stack of crates. Which meant that he wasn't going to tell her. Then again, she had a pretty good idea of what his situation was- if Oversight worked the same way it did when she left, then he was in contact with HQ at the very least. “Anyway, I heard from a few little birds around town that you were in the neighbourhood, so I decided to stop by.” He thumbed at the crates. “You need any help carrying this stuff? Technically speaking, I can't stay for long, but there ain't nothing here I can report back that Jack can't pick up from the news, so...”

“Well, if you're sure,” Angela began, glancing behind McCree as the lift doors some distance behind him opened, revealing Zenyatta and a few other monks trailing behind him. “Zenyatta!” Angela called out, waving as she did so. “Look at who dragged himself into the hospital!” she laughed, and McCree turned to the omnic, essaying a short salute as he did so.

“Oh dear, we should have asked for more synthetic livers,” Zenyatta said as he caught the cowboy in a warm embrace.

“Good to see you too, preacher man,” McCree said, slapping Zenyatta on the back. “Anyway, if you guys are willing to accept an extra hand, I guess I can spare a few-”

The hospital shook slightly as the roar of an explosion rumbled through Boklovo's streets, joined a moment later by another. And another. And another- now, Angela realized with a thrill of horror, mixed with the sound of guns. There were screams in the streets, growing louder with each passing second, but they were quickly drowned out by the sirens tearing through the air. 

Angela knew the impulse she felt right then was a foolish one. What could one woman do against the army that was surely invading Kurjikstan right now? She wasn't Oversight anymore, she couldn't be sure that McCree would stick around to help, or if he'd even stick around in Kurjikstan, period. Worst-case scenario, she would be out there by herself- a lone agent trying to help the dying and wounded amidst the running chaos of a war's first battle.

And yet there was no hesitation in her movements or her voice as she raised her comms to ask for her suit and staff-

-only for Zenyatta to gently clasp her hand and nod. “Advantage of internal communications- instant transmission,” he said, tapping his 'skull'. “Your suit and staff are on their way.”

There was a crash to her side, making both Angela and the monks jump, and their heads snapped around only to see that McCree had busted a vending machine open with his cybernetic arm. He took a canned coffee from the wreckage and threw it at Angela. “Just so you don't go without,” he said, grinning as he held his revolver up.

Angela couldn't help returning the smile. It seemed like she wouldn't be alone in trying to help after all.

* * * * *

Captain Khalil Shaheed bin Abu Bakr opened his eyes slowly, blinking as he pulled himself upwards, trying to figure out what had happened to him. It wasn't easy, what with the fog in his mind and the ringing in his ears, but his instincts were telling him that it was vital that he do so quickly. Still groggy, the world outside his helmet seemingly underwater, Khalil mentally retraced his steps: first there was the breakfast briefing with Aizad and Mahmud, then the three of them went on patrol. Aizad was complaining that of all the sectors in the city the Grand Marshal gave them, it had to be the non-Muslim one, what was he going to eat, and then an exasperated Mahmud exploding at the younger man thirty minutes into-

Khalil's eyes blinked open, the haze clearing from his mind just as the ringing in his ears began to subside, and a fortunate gust of wind blew away the dust surrounding him. The road they were taking was strewn with rubble, and as Khalil turned around he could see why. The building their transport had been driving by now lay in smoking ruins, as were the ones next to it. Khalil's first thought was that the building was struck by a shell, and that the war had started- but he'd seen shelled buildings before, far too many, and the rubble in front of him didn't look right. 

A gout of flame in the rubble drew his attention, and his eyes narrowed. The gas pipe the flame was coming from had been damaged by the explosion, but it was still intact enough that when Khalil focused his helmet's built in camera on it, the small window that opened showed that the pipe had been cut, maybe even sawed through. That was bad enough, but the gas mains were a public commodity- a random maniac sawing through the pipe would have run the risk of sparks prematurely ending his plans. Which meant that whoever sawed it open was extraordinarily lucky- or perhaps... could he had help from someone within the utilities agency itself?

A groan from next to him drew Khalil's attention and shame. “Mahmud! Sergeant, are you all right?” Khalil said, cursing himself for not looking to his men's safety first as he reached for the man pulling himself out of the open top of their ruined transport.

“I'm fine, Captain- Allah and my armour protected me, _alhamdulillah,_ ” the older man replied, waving his superior off. Khalil nodded; under the circumstances, if he managed to survive as intact as Mahmud did, he'd be thanking Allah as well. “Where's Aizad?”

“Here,” a ragged voice groaned out. Khalil turned- and as blasphemous as it may have sounded, he would have understood if Aizad wasn't as willing to thank heaven for his survival. 

“Aizad!” Khalil called out, running to the soldier, the whine of his power armour's servos barely audible over the explosions rocking Boklovo. Aizad had apparently been thrown out of the transport and into the grocery store across the street when the explosion happened- and to have also been struck by rubble as it flew out.

“Don't worry, Captain,” Aizad said with as brave a grin as he could muster. “It's not as bad as it looks,” he added, though with an arm bending the wrong way and a length of rebar through his leg, Khalil was hard-pressed to figure out how. 

“Hold on, Aizad, we'll get you some help,” Khalil said, his suit's automated medical programs assessing the damage, for what good that did. The rebar in the young man's leg was the worst of all- Khalil wasn't sure if he could remove it without Aizad bleeding out. “Mahmud, I need some medpacks here!”

“Already on it, Captain!” the trooper said, staggering around inside the ruined transport. “Damn it, the blast ruined them all- wait, I see Kurjikstani forces coming up!” he called out- presumably he saw them through the transport's miraculously unbroken windows. “Maybe they've got a medi-”

A hail of gunfire cut off Mahmud's words, bullets smashing into the armoured transport. Khalil himself barely had any time to place himself in front of the wounded Aizad before the ricochets came in like lead rain. Even then, he was only mostly successful- he felt a sharp, burning pain as a bullet caught him in an elbow joint and burned its way across the edge of his skin. Aizad got it even worse, crying out in pain as a ricocheting bullet lodged itself in his shattered arm. 

After what seemed like a thousand years (but was barely more than a few seconds according to the stubborn insistence of Khalil's internal recorder), the gunfire stopped. As Khalil turned around, he felt a wash of heat flow over him, along with a glaring light, followed a split second later by another explosion, the patter of shrapnel on his armour, and the shrill agonies of buckling steel as the transport blew up. “MAHMUD!” Khalil cried out as he turned around just in time to see the wreckage of the transport fall back down on the ground.

“Don't worry, sir, I'm fine!” Mahmud cried out. Khalil and Aizad snapped their heads back to look behind the latter, where Mahmud picked himself up from a pile of canned soups, his jump engines' turbines still spinning. “See, Aizad? This is why you should never miss your daily prayers!' the man laughed. “Allah looks out for His faithful!”

“Or maybe He's afraid you'd ruin Heaven and take over Hell!” Aizad retorted. The troopers' laughter was short-lived, as the scrape of leather on rubble called their attention back to the entrance of the grocery store, where group of Kurjikstani soldiers were standing. They weren't wearing power armour, but they did have cybernetic arms, judging by the black metal hands that emerged from their sleeves. Arms that came in handy for using the antitank rifles they were holding. 

With desperate speed, both Khalil and Mahmud raised their rocket launchers, but Khalil knew that they were too late. The enemy soldiers already had their guns raised, and in the hyper-perception that Khalil had experienced so many times before, he noticed their fingers squeezing on the triggers already. He was going to die, most certainly; the best he could hope for was that Aizad and Mahmud survived at least, and so it was for that he prayed-

“Guess what time it is!”

The loud, gruff voice rang through the city streets, so much so that even the Egyptians' disciplined would-be executioners had their attention drawn towards something to their sides. Before any of them could respond one way or another, a series of shots cracked, Khalil recognizing them as coming from a high-powered firearm of some sort. With each shot, one of their assailants went down- six men, six shots.

Khalil barely had time to process what had happened when their apparent savour stepped into view- an unkempt-looking American mercenary wielding what must have been the largest revolver Khalil had ever seen. He turned to face them, and immediately put his arms up. “Whoa, there! Whoa! I'm on your side, guys!”

Khalil blinked, then realized his launcher was still up. “No, no, just...” he trailed off, words failing him. “Mahmud!” he called out a moment later. “At ease, I don't think this man is here to kill us,” he said, before turning back to the merc. “I don't suppose you have a medic with you?” he asked. The merc replied with a smile so wide, any wider and the top of his head would have fallen off.

Also a potential cause of the merc's head falling off: The artillery shell whistling as it came down from behind him.

* * * * *

“Oooh, we've done it now, Hog! I'm usually up for things exploding in our faces, but this is too much of a good thing! Too much!”

Jamison was not having a good day, not at all. Okay, so the 'vault' they were supposed to blow up was empty, but hey, he'd been prepared for that. He had time to come to terms with the fact that they wouldn't get the loot. He'd had time to gird his mental loins- or was that mentally gird his loins? Mentally gird his psychic loins? Whatever. He'd had time to look in the mirror every morning leading up to this day, smile wistfully, and accept the fact that no matter what happened, or how rich he was at the end of the day, he'd love that handsome devil in the mirror just as much.

But now he had to face up to the fact that not only did he just blow up an empty building, he _and Roadhog too **this was important** remember it for the **judge**_ he _and the Hog **he was there too Yer Honour** might have actually started a war. And there was no way he could- wait, wait, maybe if he mined the main streets, used the Hog as a human shield, aimed for... no, no there was still no way he could fight the entire Russian army. Bits of it, maybe, but not the whole thing._

_Besides, it wasn't as if they were gonna be bringing omnics along, so it would've been a bit of a wash anyway. Jamison didn't bring out the good explosives for anyone who wasn't a goddamn golem._

_If there was a single consolation he could see, it was that no-one was looking for him and Roadhog, on account of them shooting at each other. In fact, right outside the window of the small building the Junkers had been hiding in, there had just been two groups of soldiers, all in Kurjikstani uniforms, firing away at each other. A few well placed grenades from Jamison's launcher turned their present tensions and the soldiers participating in it into the past tense, but that was still enough to light the fuses in his head. Now, Jamison would've been the first to admit he wasn't the smartest man around, but even he could smell something fishy above the cordite and sulphur. Either the Kurjikstani figjams up top were really off their faces, or there were a bunch of wankers pissing about on everybody who wasn't them._

_Guh. Now _there_ was a mental image._

_Thankfully, right before Jamison could pour his last tin of beer into his eyes, he felt Roadhog nudge him. “So what's the plan? We getting out, staying for the fireworks, or what?”_

_Jamison blinked at the man for a few moments, then his mouth twisted into a cross between a sneer and a snarl. “We're picking option C, Hog,” he hissed. “We're not leaving this place empty-handed, nosireebob. We've been played, Hog! I want a rematch!”_

_“That was a terrible metaphor.”_

_“Eh, gets the job done,” Jamison shrugged. He checked his makeshift grenade launcher- all right, didn't rattle or explode too much when he shook it, so that meant it was good. He looked at Roadhog, and nodded approvingly as he watched the larger man stuff his 'ammo pouch' with screws and nails. “Right then,” Jamison said with a manic grin. “You ready for this, Hog?”_

_“You still haven't told me the plan yet.”_

_“What? Oh. Uhm... huh,” Jamison said, then shrugged. “Righto! Hear me out here, Hog: We blow up as much of the city as we can on our way out, loot whatever we could, and if we meet the old fella who paid us for the job, we blow him up! Sounds good?”_

_“Sounds like the only plan you manage to think up in the past ten seconds.”_

_“Eh, gets the job done,” Jamison shrugged, then lifted his grenade launcher- yep, still not rattling or exploding. “Let's go!”_

_He didn't wait for a response from Roadhog, because he knew his ol' buddy, ol' pal would be following behind. Why wouldn't he? It wasn't as if he'd have anywhere else to go. There was a reason their little gang was called the Junkers instead of the Hoggers, after all. Having silenced that little speck of doubt in his mind with an explosion of logic, Jamison perked up his ears, listening out for gunfire._

_Of course, common sense would advise going towards gunfire in a war zone, especially if said war is a civil war and the participants are wary enough of people in the same uniform. Which would have been when Jamison would tap the side of his head and grinning widely, proudly proclaim that that was the whole point! Nobody would be crazy enough to approach a firefight in progress, which meant that anything around the place would be untouched!_

_Well, not by human hands, _obviously_ ; bullets would be everywhere for one, but as far as Jamison was concerned, it was all a matter of perspective! Some people saw spent bullets where he saw shrapnel filler for his explosives! It was win-win! By which Jamison meant that he won, and Roadhog won. Everyone he blew up wouldn't have won, but if you were caught in a crossfire (or better yet, if you won but were picked off by the Junkers), you were a loser, and losers didn't win. That's logical!_

_Buoyed by his own scholarly euphoria, Junkrat found himself rudely interrupted when a length of chain wrapped itself around his waist and pulled him back into the cover of a nearby group of shattered buildings. “Gunfight,” Roadhog said, a finger up._

_Jamison looked over to where Roadhog was pointing, and nodded in slowly dawning comprehension. “Holy crap, you're right, 'Hog,” he said with complete sincerity. While on one hand he did think Roadhog was being a little bit of a nanny (the fight was two, maybe three streets over, tops!), on the other, there were certainly enough bullets and rocket shells whizzing about that even Jamison had to take pause. At the very least, he wanted to know whose side he should take once he decided to butt in. Of course, when Jamison got excited he had a tendency to share the fun, so to speak, but since that generally led to even more explosions Jamison didn't really mind._

_That said, the fight did seem a little unfair- on one side was either one really big squad of soldiers and mercs or two smaller squads combined, who were outnumbered twenty-ish to five by the strange group of people attacking them. One guy looked like another regular mercenary, but he fired his massive revolver and dodged the soldiers' projectiles with all the cocky precision of a man who was entirely too used to this. There were three of those 'Gyppos (like, real ones. From Egypt) running about shooting rockets everywhere. One of them took a hit in the head and went down, only to be revived by glowing light coming from a staff held by a woman in some kind of angel cost _ume what the fresh hell was he _seeing___

__Well, that made Jamison's mind up! He nudged Roadhog in the ribs. “Dunno about you, Hog, but I'm definitely rooting for that bunch,” he said, grinning madly (well, madder than he usually did). “And by that, I mean me and that angel are going to do a lot of root-”_ _

__“Wait,” Roadhog said, as the soldiers' position was peppered by a few bolts of blue energy, bolts that seemed unpleasantly familiar to Jamison. He couldn't remember where he'd seen such things before, but they made his stomach twist, that was for sure. He turned to where Roadhog was pointing now, and the reason for his nauseating nostalgia quickly became apparent. “Omnic,” Roadhog said, his voice filled with the caustic venom that Jamison felt flowing through his veins as the Junkers watched the robed _thing_ float above the ground, throwing energy bolts at good, honest human soldiers undoubtedly fighting for their country, for their very _humanity_ against the race traitors assaulting them._ _

__Well, that made Jamison's mind up! He nudged Roadhog in the ribs. “Dunno about you, Hog, but we're definitely rooting that bunch,” he said, grinning savagely (well, more savage than he usually did). “And by rooting, I mean-”_ _

__“Yeah,” Roadhog replied, hefting his shotgun and chain. “Me too.”_ _

__With a roar of fury, Jamison leapt out of the rubble the Junkers had been hiding behind, his grenades leaving their launcher before his feet had left the ground, the jangling of Roadhog's chain barely audible over Jamison's battle cry. He could feel the rush of wind on his face barely cooling the boiling blood that coursed through him, his gaze fixed firmly on the floating omnic behind the humans. He'd heard that there were omnics in the city, of course, but that was way back when he had a job to focus on and cops to worry about. If the locals were dumb enough to let omnics walk among them, that was their problem._ _

__Now, though? Now there was a war on. Law was on a long holiday, and Jamison was the night janitor with the keys to the office, a notepad with all the door key codes written down, along with a bottle of homemade rotgut he didn't have to hide among his supplies anymore._ _

__Figuratively speaking, of course. Literally speaking, Jamison was a guy who was almost about to be ventilated by so many bullets it wasn't impossible he'd die of lead poisoning before the bullets actually killed him properly. Not that he was immediately aware of it, of course._ _

__It all started so well, he thought later. His first few grenades among the smaller group scattered them, but that was all- the merc rolled out of ther way easily, the Egyptians flew too quick and too fast, and the omnic was apparently too good to touch both the ground and his grenades. Worst of all, what little damage he caused was quickly undone by the angel cosplayer, a.k.a. Miss Target Practice 2073._ _

__And then came the blood._ _

__It wasn't his, which was good. It was Hog's though, which was bad. That was because Roadhog had shoulder checked Jamison to get the latter out of the line of the large group of soldiers firing at them, which was good. Of course, being fired upon by the people whom Jamison had thought would have been on his side, was bad._ _

__Then again, they were a larger, easier-to-hit group than the bunch of oddjobs that Jamison had been blasting away at just moments before he was suddenly (and in hindsight, inevitably) betrayed, and that was for deffos a good thing. And of course, there was the fact that the Junkers were involved in a three-way battle, and that kind of threesome suited Jamison just fine. Explosives were more fun when shared, after all!_ _

__Speaking of which- “Hey, Hog! Felt you bleed a little there!” Jamison asked, his head popping out beneath the gut of the massive guy on top of him, bullets and energy bolts coming from both sides to chip away at the rubble the Junkers had landed in-between. “You still breathing, mate?”_ _

__Roadhog didn't answer at first, instead taking out a canister from his belt, jamming it into his mask and taking a deep breath. “Yeah,” he said, a small gout of yellow gas coming out from his mask as he exhaled._ _

__The two of them leapt out from the rubble. Jamison pointed Roadhog at the smaller group; he wanted the soldiers for himself, because nobody shoots Jamison Fawkes in the back but Jamison Fawkes! How would that work? Who knows! Jamison didn't, but he did know he was going to kick the arses of everyone else who thought they could!_ _

__The soldiers he was charging goggled at the madman charging their fortified positions for a moment, then made their first mistake by dividing their attention. Whoever was in charge (Jamison didn't bother to look) yelled out orders in their weird Russian lingo, and the majority of the soldiers focused their fire on the other group, with only a few soldiers levelling their arms at Jamison- which suited Jamison just fine. He took out a mine from the many at his waist and tossed it in front of him, relishing the bewildered looks of the troops aiming at him._ _

__He let them laugh for a moment as his peg leg landed right on the mine's pressure plate, and drank in the looks of shock they gave him as the explosion launched him into the air with a grace borne of long and painful practice. They tried to bring their weapons back up, but by then it was too late. Several grenades fell among them. most not even armed, as Jamison's open-topped ammo hopper dropped a few more among them than Jamison had actually launched. That said, they exploded just as well when the grenades Jamison did fire detonated._ _

__The resulting explosions were music to Jamison's ears, and he closed his eyes to more properly appreciate them as he sailed through the air. That, and to protect his eyes from the hail of shrapnel flying up towards him from below thanks to his grenades causing a chain reaction among the soldiers' assembled ammo stocks and vehicles. The waves of rising hot air spun him so that he landed in a pirouette, eyes still closed, mouth still locked in a blissful smile, as flames erupted all around him. Even through the warm breeze flowing around him, he could still feel the soft touch of rain on his face._ _

__No, wait, that's blood and bits._ _

__“Guess this is why they say you don't want to see how sausage is made,” Jamison said bemusedly,, looking up- “OH CRIKEY!” he yelped, leaping to the side just in time as the remains of an armoured vehicle landed right where he had been standing. “Ha! Missed mmmf!” he added, as the vehicle's ex-driver landed on him. “All right, I guess I deserved thmf!” he said, as the vehicle's ex-gunner landed on him next. “All right, yeah, that toogh!” he went on to say as the ex-radio guy slammed into him from above. This time, Jamison took a moment to let things calm down a bit before he thought to speak. “Well, can't say I deserved fairer than that,” he groaned._ _

__Which was the exact moment what was left of the transport's passengers landed on him at once._ _

__All twelve of them._ _

__Scrabbling out from under the bodies, a breathless, wheezing Jamison looked over to where he was sure Roadhog had been fighting. He was only up against six guys, after all. They'd faced much bigger odds before, surely Hog would have been able to handle one golem and his pals, right?_ _

__“I'd say I'm sorry, but I'd be lying,” Roadhog said as he scrambled around the body pile Jamison was buried under, then hid behind it, jamming another handful of junk into his improvised shotgun._ _

__“Don't worry mate, you tried your- oi, wait, they're not even touched!” Jamison yelled angrily as he saw the group running at him. “You pissing wanker! I thought you had it in the bag!”_ _

__“Bag had a hole in it. Six holes. And I'm one guy.”_ _

__“No excuse! I took out an entire army by myself!” Jamison yelled back._ _

__“Two squads.”_ _

__“All right then, I took out a _small_ army by myself! You know, for a large bugger you sure like to nitpick the little things!” Jamison said, when he heard a cough in front of him. “WHAT?! Oh.”_ _

__“You quite done yet?” the revolver merc said, pointing the barrel of what seemed like the biggest gun Jamison ever saw at the Junker's face. The Egyptians looked equally unfriendly- two of them scowled at Jamison, while one particularly dignified knob gave Jamison the kind of look usually reserved for anything stuck to the bottom of shoes. Only the angel and- much to Jamison's disgust- the omnic, seemed to have any sympathy for the two Junkers._ _

__Jamison was about to reply, when the merc's comms sparked into life. “This is Grand Marshal Kebir Hamidov!” came a familiar voice that filled Jamison's heart with hope. “To all units who have decided to side with the Russians, we have identified you! The Air Force has remained loyal, and if you do not stand down, I will not hesitate to rain death upon those who have betrayed Kurjikstan!”_ _

__Jamison didn't really catch any of that, save for the Grand Marshal thing- boy, that was a prize to have in his pocket! Truth be told though, he did feel a little cheated- if he'd known that the voice on the phone was the Grand Marshal himself instead of the 'distant nephew' he'd claimed to be, Jamison might have been able to argue for a higher price. Oh well, you gotta play with the cards you'd hidden up your sleeve and all that._ _

__“Done?” he said with a mocking grin. “Let me tell you who my friends are, and we'll see who's done.”_ _

____

* * * * *

“I am done with him!” the Grand Marshal raged. “My own brother! He hired them to start the fighting, to start the war?! He betrayed me! He betrayed Kurjikstan! He is dead to me! Dead! I will mount his head on a pike!”

Jack watched impassively as the Grand Marshal ranted and raved, the War Room's other occupants- namely Jack, McCree and the few generals who had been confirmed to have remained loyal- watching in consternation and scared silence. Well, almost all of them; now that McCree was back in his usual cowboy getup, he seemed to Jack to be far more relaxed. He didn't show it much, but it was there.

As the Grand Marshal kept going, Jack took another look at the hololithic display above the table everyone was standing around. He'd taken a cursory glance at it when he came into the room for the first time, but the Marshal liked to keep his brightness settings high (or he didn't know how to change them), and Jack didn't really enjoy squinting to get a better look, at least when he thought the Grand Marshal had something useful to tell him instead.

Now though, he let his gaze run over the important points in the city. There was the impromptu jail set up in the city's biggest police station, where the Junkers had been locked up after they severely miscalculated just who their patron was. The presence of the two notorious criminals was quite convenient, truth be told- now Jack had official excuse for Oversight being in Boklovo, hence McCree's relaxed dress code. It took some effort for Jack to refrain from smiling when he remembered the call McCree gave him, as well as Kebir's shocked expression as he realized just who sounded the most like him, enough to confuse the Junkers.

Then there was the tent city that served as a field hospital, where he had sent Angela and Zenyatta at their request. Now that was a bit of a surprise- he'd heard that the Shambhalan monks had sent people to the stricken city, but he'd never expected to see those old faces again. That said, while he felt a little wistful that they didn't have the chance to catch up, he didn't really mind all that much. They had chosen to leave Oversight, after all; he doubted they would have been interested in what was happening back at HQ apart from light gossip, and if they were... odds are that they wouldn't want to hear what Jack had planned for the place.

He put those thoughts out of his mind, and looked at where the Egyptians were busy helping loyalist troops take out the last holdout of rebel forces. His eyes narrowed as his thoughts raced, trying to get a handle on what the regional superpower was up to. After all, they were a small, token force, no use at all in a mass combat action. On the other hand, they were some of Helix Security's most potent operatives, and their suits' nanofactories would have been able to keep them supplied as long as they had access to raw materials, which meant that Egypt probably meant for them to augment or lead guerilla forces in the supposedly unlikely event of a Russian invasion and their very likely victory thereafter. 

That in turn probably meant that Egypt either wanted to turn Kurjikstan into another Siberia, a war-torn hellhole to drain Russian resources and manpower, or that they were willing to show that they were willing to help their satellite nations, but not stick their neck out for them. Either way, Jack found himself nodding at the ruthlessness of the reasoning; he didn't think the Egyptians had it in them.

That said, he didn't think the Russians were so stupid as to play right into Egypt's hands- he can't have been the only one to see how difficult occupying Kurjikstan would have been, especially with Siberia not being fully pacified. And then there was the matter of how far the majority of Russian forces were from Boklovo. True, Russian troops had crossed the northern border into Kurjikstani territory, but as long as Boklovo stood it could serve as a port for supplies from Turkey- no, the entire Middle East, maybe even Western Europe via Italy. Egypt wasn't the only nation with a vested interest in keeping Russia contained, after all.

Which meant that Russia had to take Boklovo, and quickly. Yet as far as Jack could see, Russian troop transports were not only too far away, but couldn't hold enough troops to take the city, especially now that air superiority was firmly in the Grand Marshal's hands. Oh sure, the nearby Russian ships could pound the harbour for a bit, but radars hadn't picked up Russian aircraft, and-

Jack's eyes suddenly bulged. Judging by how Kebir cut off mid-rant, he noticed it too. “What is it, Commander Morrison?”

“Do you have sonar coverage of the harbour?” Jack asked.

Kebir shook his head. “Not anymore,” he said, glancing at an empty seat with barely concealed disgust as the rest of his generals winced. “Most of our ships were taken out by the Russian navy's initial strike.”

“Most? Which ships?” Jack pressed.

“Light cruisers, destroyers-” Kebir said, when Jack interrupted.

“Anti-submarine vessels, you mean?” Jack asked again.

“That's ri-” Kebir said, when his eyes shot open as well. He snapped back to his generals, who all immediately stood at attention. “Stop standing around, you idiots! The Russians are coming from beneath the Black Sea! Get your troops-”

The doors to the meeting room slammed open, and a terrified young soldier nearly collapsed through. Terror had turned him pale and stolen his breath, but he had enough air in his lungs to say “Grand Marshal! You need to see this!”

* * * * *

“ _Gott im Himmel,_ ” Angela said as she looked up, her voice flat and breathless as the shock took over. To her side, Zenyatta remained silent, but even he was forced back a few paces. Later on, Angela couldn't say whether it was awe, fear, or some combination of the two that held her rooted to the spot, but she remained motionless for a few moments until Zenyatta grabbed her hand. He nodded to the bedridden patients, who were almost forgotten as those more able ran for the exits. Angela returned the nod, and went to help the monks coordinating the escape, doing her best to focus on that instead.

It wasn't easy, and it only became harder with every rumbling tremor.

Fighter jets screamed above them, launching their payloads into the massive omnic that had risen from Boklovo's harbour, but their missiles shattered harmlessly on its shields, as did artillery and large calibre shells. Tanks were flattened beneath its titanic feet, or picked up in its giant hands and thrown indiscriminately. Fighters and buildings alike were brought down by the storeys-high missile banks on its shoulders. Huge rotary cannons fired shells the size of small vehicles, tearing Boklovo to shreds.

Then came the wall of sound.

The sheer shockwave shattered windows and rattled structures. They resonated with Angela's wings, causing the 'feathers' to flicker and the metal to shake violently, sending her to the ground. She had just managed to right herself when there was another shockwave, which sent her back down again. Between the disorientation she felt and the ringing in her ears, it took her a second to realize Zenyatta was helping her up this time, and another to ask him “What in God's name were those?”

“Those were...” Zenyatta began, and Angela could hear the pained recognition in his voice. “Guns. Fusion artillery warheads,” he added, with a vehemence Angela had never heard from him before. “Wicked, horrible things,” he said, before finishing in a hoarse whisper. “Our responsibility. Our burden.”

Angela nodded in commiseration. She'd heard of fusion artillery: a terrible weapon developed in the last days of the Omnic Crisis, but she had never had to experience their effects in person as either a victim or a doctor. Considering the descriptions she read- all the destructive effects of tactical nuclear weapons with none of the nuclear fallout- she was grateful. And considering it was invented and used almost exclusively by omnics, she could guess why Zenyatta felt guilty. Felt furious.

“Hey! You two all right there?” McCree called out, helping up monks and patients near the tent flap he came in through.

“We're all right, Jesse!” Angela said, adding an “I hope,” as she turned to Zenyatta and saw the glow of his lights dim slightly. 

McCree sighed in relief. “That's good to hear, 'cos I've got me some bad news- you're drafted,” he said with an apologetic smile. “Commander's got a plan to take that thing down, and he needs your-”

“I will go along with you,” Zenyatta said, straightening up.

“Thanks, Zen,” McCree began, “but-”

“I. Will. Go. With. You,” Zenyatta said, and Angela actually felt him trembling slightly.

Evidently McCree picked up on Zenyatta's determination as well, and he simply nodded. “Kind of you to offer,” he said.

*

When Angela arrived at the mobile command centre, Zenyatta in tow, she already felt exhausted. Not because of the journey there- between her wings and McCree managing to flag down a passing transport, travelling to the command centre had been easy. But flying as high as she did, it was impossible to not see the many refugees still streaming out of the city, the twin mushroom clouds in the distance. And if it had been torturous for her, she didn't dare contemplate what was going through Zenyatta's mind.

Perhaps it was that which made her snap a little at Jack as soon as she entered the reinforced lorry that had stopped to pick them up. “I hope you have a plan, Jack,” she said, striding right up to the command table in the middle of the lorry's bay and feeling a slight satisfaction at how Jack bristled when she used his given name. She and Jack weren't the only ones gathered around the table, of course. Grand Marshal Hamidov was there was well, along with a few generals who seemed to look like they knew what they were doing. To her mild surprise, the Egyptians were there as well, bullet ricochets and other impacts turning their once splendid blue armour almost half silver. 

For a moment, her tongue froze in her mouth, questions suddenly rising unbidden to her lips, and her mind trying its best to withhold the- this wasn't the right time! This wasn't the right place! Then Angela saw Jack's eyes narrowing, and she thought she was going to get a tongue lashing. 

Which was when his features suddenly softened. “Rough day, Angela?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said flatly, pushing all thoughts of questions out of her mind- right now, there were more important things than her desperate curiosity to focus on. “Jesse told us you had a plan.”

“He's right,” Jack said as McCree and Zenyatta entered the tent. He raised an eyebrow at the omnic, but shrugged slightly and went on. “Let's get to the point,” Jack said, and everyone else in the room nodded. “We can't take that thing down with a conventional army, at least not with the forces we have at hand,” he said, turning to one general for confirmation.

“Commander Morrison is correct,” the general said, and Angela realized that his eyes were puffy, his cheeks red and damp. “The omnic's fusion weapons have killed my so- have destroyed several regiments that were coming to reinforce Boklovo, but I... I doubt that they could have done much to aid us,” he said bitterly, wiping an errant tear from his eye.

“They would have,” the Egyptian officer- Captain Khalil, Angela recalled- said. “The omnic's kinetic shields couldn't last forever, and a sustained assault could have still brought it down. It happened during the Crisis, and it could have happened here as well.”

The general didn't say anything, but he did give Captain Khalil a grateful smile nonetheless, before the Grand Marshal cleared his throat. “It would have also cost far too many lives,” he said, with the slightly faraway voice of a veteran trying to drive back the memories. “Lives that would not need to be wasted.”

“Precisely,” Jack said, tapping the command table and calling up a holomap of the city. Even shrunken down to fit, the omnic walker in the middle of the map still seemed intimidating. “See, these things were originally meant to construct buildings, and like all construction equipment, they'd need maintenance. There are maintenance hatches near the legs, down here,” he said, zooming the image down on the omnic and indicating a spot on its . “A small team could enter the omnic and disable it from within.”

“It would not work,” a voice came from behind Angela, and she turned to see Zenyatta slowly walk past her to stagger to the table. “This... _thing_ has thousands of infrared sensors mounted around it. It would detect us long before we could enter.”

“ 'We', Zenyatta?” Jack asked.

“We,” Zenyatta said, his voice almost a scream, before Angela could rally to his defence. “Omnics built this abomination- I cannot stand by without doing something to stop it!” he said, his voice rising to a hoarse rattle.

Jack blinked a few times, and Angela realized she'd never seen him taken aback so much before. She was sure she'd remember if he had, that was for sure. “Well then, you're about to get your chance,” he said, giving Zenyatta one last unsure glance as he turned back to the map. “We'll enter from this building here,” he said, pointing to a shattered structure. “The lower floors are still standing, which should give us enough height to make a running jump onto its maintenance hatch. The shields are calibrated for high-velocity projectiles and energy weapons; even with a running jump, we should be moving slowly enough that it doesn't restrict us.”

Captain Khalil raised his hand. “That still leaves the infrared sensors the monk told us about,” he said, nodding at Zenyatta.

“I was just about to get to that,” Jack said. “This isn't the first time I've had to tango with one of these things. My squad managed to take down a few during the Crisis. Most of their security systems are on the outside; the insides should have some automated defences- drones, turrets, maybe a few soldiers in this case,” he said. “Though back then I... I had...” he trailed off.

“Commander Morrison?” Angela asked, when the Grand Marshal held up his hand.

“He is a veteran,” Hamidov said, far more gently than Angela would have expected from him. “There are people he entered with who might not have come out again.”

“Oh, we all came out,” Jack said with a small smile. “But it's what happened afterwards that- never mind,” he said, shaking his head. “This isn't the time or place,” he added in a harsh whisper, and Angela wondered if he was talking to the people around the table or himself. “In any case,” he said, his voice firmer now, the Oversight Commander once again, “we faced pretty much the same problem we do now, and we're going to solve it the same way. Grand Marshal?” he finished, turning back to the Kurjikstani leader.

“It is crude, but simple,” he said. “As you approach the omnic, we will launch a full-scale assault on the omnic and hit it with all we can muster. “While a such an assault might prove too costly by itself even if we do take it down, the combined firepower of the armed forces should...” he said, glancing at Jack, who nodded. “Should occupy its sensors enough that you might be lost in the signal noise.”

“I thought you said you were against wasting lives,” a shocked Zenyatta said, and Angela nodded in emphasis. “You are placing your soldiers directly in its line of fire!”

“I am,” the Grand Marshal said simply, while the general who looked as if he'd been crying tightened his fists until his knuckles turned white. “But this is the only action we can take, and any lives lost in _that_ pursuit will _not_ be wasted.” He held up a hand to forestall both Angela's and Zenyatta's objections to his pithiness. “I promise you, I will withdraw my forces with all haste once you are onboard the omnic. Of course, the longer you take to get onboard, the more lives will need to be lost.”

“That said,” Jack added, “it doesn't matter how many lives we save by rushing if it means we fail to get onboard the damned thing in the first place, understood?” he said, looking around the room, but letting his gaze linger for a fraction of a second longer on Angela and Zenyatta. “Good,” he said at last. “The team will be me and McCree, you- you two,” Jack said, pointing at Angela and Zenyatta, with the former sure he'd meant to only mention her, “as well as the three Egyptians.”

“Two of us,” Captain Khalil said. Angela noticed Jack stiffen, but he let Khalil speak further. “One more man wouldn't make that much of a difference, and if anything happens to us, I want someone our families know delivering the news,” he said with a calm finality, before turning to the two men behind him. “Forgive me, Mahmud, but-”

“Wait, you're sending me back?” the man named Mahmud said, his eyes goggled in shock. “But-”

“But nothing, my friend,” Khalil said, patting him on the shoulder. “I have to go on this mission, and we both know damned well Aizad hasn't memorized the proper _suras_ to give us proper prayers if anything happens.”

“It's true,” the youngest Egyptian man there said with a nonchalant shrug, though his aura of apparent calm was diluted by the sliway he trembled slightly. “Barely cracked the Qur'an open since I was a teenager, now it's gathering dust back home” he added.

“And see where it's gotten you?” Mahmud sighed, patting Aizad on the shoulder. “All right, sir,” he said, saluting Captain Khalil. “I'll hold back. Just so you know though, I'll be praying from the back all the same.”

“We do need all the help we can get,” Khalil replied with a sad grin, when Angela cleared her throat to attract his attention. 

She hated to do so, truth be told; she'd seen situations like this both within and outside of the wards, where a few comforting words and affirmations did far more to help a patient than the best medicines (outside her staff, anyway), but time was of the essence. “I saw your missiles in combat,” she said. “Are you sure it would be safe to bring high explosives into what I assume would be cramped quarters? Especially ones that might be full of delicate electronics?”

Khalil raised his weapon arm, and pressed a few buttons on it and explaining as he did so. “Our launchers' nanofactories can be configured to produce different kinds of missiles. High speed HE, like you've seen us use, and...” He pressed a few more buttons, and there was a beeping sound followed by an acknowledgement in Arabic. “Low-velocity concussion missiles, used for nonlethal takedowns.” He tapped his launcher. “I can personally assure you that it's like being punched hard, but no worse than that.”

Angela raised an eyebrow.”You can 'personally' assure me?”

Khalil shrugged, sharing a glance with Mahmud. “Me and Mahmud- well, we were younger and stupider once,” he said, smiling. 

Angela nodded; the joke wasn't very funny, but what small humour she could've still found in it were drowned out by a burning need to know, by the questions she wanted to ask. Questions she pushed back down into her gut. But once this was all over, though, she knew she had to ask them.

Jack looked around the room. “I presume everything is settled, then? Good,” he said, looking back down at the holomap of Boklovo, the omnic titan standing tall in the middle of the city. His eyes narrowed. “Let's do this.”

* * * * *

Zenyatta sat cross-legged in the ruined building. The lights on his forehead had dimmed, as were his optical sensors, and his arm servos had locked into place, allowing to keep perfectly still. Now if only his processors weren't running so fast even he could hear the whirring of his cooling systems above the sounds of the soldiers preparing around him.

Hanging his head in shame, Zenyatta unlocked his limbs and stood up, the rest of his systems coming back online. All around him, grim-faced soldiers checked their equipment. Some of them, the more experienced ones by the looks of it, spared themselves a moment here and there to give suspicious glares at Zenyatta, not that he could blame them. After all, this wouldn't have been the first time any of them would have fought an omnic. The monk had no illusions about what his chances might have been if the rest of the squad hadn't been there with him.

A loud explosion caught his attention. He looked into the distance where the titanic walker still strode, its energy cannon flashing as it continued its systematic destruction of Boklovo's industrial areas. Zenyatta wondered about the people who once worked there, and who managed to flee the city- would they still have jobs when they came back? Could, or would, the government support them if they didn't? And regardless of the outcome, who would they blame? The government, for failing them? The Middle East, who should have done more to help defend them? The Russians for invading?

Or omnics?

Zenyatta knew which he'd pick, despite the scrapcode and system errors that filled him whenever he had to think about it. That an omnic which had been designed to build cities had now been perverted into destroying them made his disgust worse, and would have undoubtedly inflamed opinion against omnics in general. If there was any bright side to this, it was that the fusion artillery hadn't been fired again, but even that was small comfort. That one shot it took would've been enough to remind the world of what his people had done.

What _he_ had done-

“Are you all right?”

Zenyatta turned around to see Angela walking up to him, her concern plainly evident. “I am, Doctor Ziegler,” he lied. “Is something wrong?”

“I should ask you that question,” she said softly as she came up to his side. “You seemed a little, ah...” she said, searching for the right words. “Emotional, I should say, in the command centre.”

Zenyatta didn't answer at first, instead glancing at the omnic, now apparently done with its mission of destruction and striding towards the government sector. “It was... difficult to restrain myself, to be sure,” he said. “Too many terrible memories of the creature I was during the Crisis.”

Angela nodded. “I will not insult you by saying I understand,” she said. “At least, not wholly. But- and I should warn you, I'm no psychologist,” she said, with a slight, bitter smile, “I will be there if you need someone to talk to.”

“Thank you, Angela,” Zenyatta said with a heartfelt gratitude that surprised himself. “And I assure you, simply by making the offer, I suspect you understand better than you might think.”

Angela gave Zenyatta a relieved smile, but whatever she might have said in response was interrupted by Jack's brusque voice as he came up behind them. “All right then, you two, time to get into the transport!” he said, gesturing towards an armoured vehicle that had just pulled up. “Remember, Kebir's boys and girls might have only one real shot at this, so let's make it count!”

“We will,” Zenyatta said, nodding determinedly, as did Angela. As they walked around and into the transport's rear door, Zenyatta saw that its interior was different from those which he remembered from the Crisis. Gone were the ammo racks and gun emplacements, or the webbing used to hold spare equipment; instead, the transport itself was lined with sheets of foam hastily riveted into the surrounding panelling. 

“Insulation,” Jack said. The last man inside the transport, he shook his head as he closed the transport's door behind him. “It's supposed to give us a little more protection from the IR sensors,” he said, sighing as he strapped himself in. “They even duct taped the stuff under the hood of the engine!” he groaned.

“Wouldn't it be more effective on the outside?” McCree asked.

“Yes, but apparently Hamidov didn't want this thing to 'stand out',” Jack replied with a withering grin. “Apparently he's afraid there might still be insurgents who might target it if it looked any different. And well, I couldn't argue with the man, could I?” he added. Whether it was because he needed the Grand Marshal's support or because he thought it wouldn't have worked, he didn't say, and Zenyatta supposed it didn't matter.

As the transport started up, the roar of its engines was joined by the din of a hundred, then what sounded to Zenyatta like a thousand more. There was a ferocity to their advance, one that was matched only by its lack of elegance and artifice. This was Kurjikstan grabbing a rock in its fist before it landed a punch, no different than the massed assaults Zenyatta took part in during the Crisis. He and his fellow war machines felt so invincible then, railguns and energy cannons blazing away. Meanwhile, smaller units (in both size and number) took advantage of the chaos to wreak destruction behind enemy lines. 

Now though... now his coolant systems pushed themselves to breaking point, as his processors tried to reconcile the actions that brought him so much guilt, to the necessity of what he was doing now. He looked down on his hands; the omnic shells he and his brethren had transferred their consciousnesses into were far less lethal than the walking tanks they had once been, but that didn't mean their humanoid forms were any less lethal- they were found in an armaments factory after all. 

Was a weapon all that he was meant to be?

For a moment, Zenyatta wondered if he should try and meditate again, but he quickly pushed that thought from his mind, There was peace to be found within the Iris, but he would find neither now, nor did he have time to. The transport was bouncing up and down, its driver keeping up a breakneck pace while the passengers within hung on tightly, while the din of engines outside told Zenyatta that the rest of the army was managing to keep up. Above them, the roar of jet engines joined the wall of noise Zenyatta felt himself being pushed into.

All too quickly though, the rumbling of their vehicles were replaced by another sound that Zenyatta was all too familiar with- the tearing hiss of missiles as they cut through the air. His sensors picked up one, then two above them, the screaming of stricken strike fighters growing louder and louder as they plunged to earth. Outside the transport, a loud, staccato _thump-thump-thump_ tore through the chaos, the sound of crumpling vehicles giving Zenyatta an exact count of how many vehicles the rotary cannons were tearing through. 

Their transport swerved, then came to an abrupt stop as it crashed into something, the vehicle seeming poised to flip on its back for one terrifying second, then crashing onto its side. Zenyatta found himself helping to push up the younger Egyptian- Aizad, he remembered- who had been sitting across from him, and had collapsed onto the monk when his restraints snapped. “Good start, eh?” Aizad said. Zenyatta wanted to say something in response, perhaps an acknowledgement or to make a joke of his own, but Jack cut him off.

“Everyone out, now!” he yelled unnecessarily- inside the transport, those who had managed to unbuckle themselves were already helping those who couldn't. “We have to get to cover!”

A punch from McCree's cybernetic fist sent their transport's buckled door flying off, and the squad quickly ran out. They had the dubious good fortune to have slammed into fallen building on the side of the road, but elsewhere... to Zenyatta's eyes, they emerged to what seemed like a vision of hell. Crashed jets lay in crumpled messes, and even as he watched, energy blasts were ripping armoured vehicles apart, while the rotary cannon's shells left smoking ruins. The screams of barked orders and dying men intermingled to the point where Zenyatta couldn't tell one from the other, even if the booming of guns from both sides weren't disrupting everything.

He tore his eyes from the sight- there was no time. If he wanted to stop the slaughter, he had to do it now. Judging by the speed at which the other squaddies were moving, they knew it too. Zenyatta clasped his hands and raised his legs, his antigravity systems kicking in at the practised motion- he was no soldier, the terrain was too rough for him to walk across. Even so, he moved a little slower than the rest of the squad- Jack and McCree moved with the ease of men who'd been in this situation before, while Khalil and Aizad had their jets to assist them.

Angela wasn't the only one ahead of him, and that was only because she had taken a few moments to heal their transport's driver, who quickly waved her off. “Sorry for taking so long,” she said, sheepishly.

“No,” Zenyatta said, struck by a sudden epiphany. “No,” he repeated, his voice a little steadier. He sent one of his orbs, glowing green with restorative energy fields and nanotech, and sent it to orbit the still-limping driver as he scrabbled to safety. “Never- never apologize for saving a life,” he said quietly, as much to himself as to Angela.

Angela gave him a small smile, before she flared her wings and flew to join the rest as they climbed the ruined building, leaping and flying up shattered steps and floors. Zenyatta too, found himself moving a little bit faster. He knew his people had been responsible for so much chaos, so much destruction, and that he shared some measure of responsibility for that. But all that meant was that he had a shared duty to help redeem their name, to be an example for those who might follow or join. A hard war, but one no harder than the one he joined all those years ago.

And there were omnics and humans who were alive today, thanks to his actions. There were humans and omnics who yet depended on him, and he would not fail them. If a weapon was all that Zenyatta was meant to be, if that was his place in the universe, so be it- but he would choose how he was wielded.

The sound of Jack's yelling brought Zenyatta back. “Here it comes!” he yelled, standing behind a shattered pillar. “Kebir's boys are starting to fall back!” he yelled; Zenyatta hoped this meant that their driver had managed to get away and report the squad's departure. “No turning back now!”

The ground trembled with every step the massive omnic took, as did the rest of the squad. Even Zenyatta's antigravity generators needed a moment or two to adjust. But with a speed that belied its slow, lumbering gait, the titan was right beside them. “Now!” Jack shouted, right as a massive leg stomped right next to the building.

Engines and cybernetic wings flared into life as Angela and the Egyptians crossed the gap. Jack landed next, his boots thumping loudly on the metal surface, while Zenyatta's antigravity generators hastened to compensate, the stress of his landing almost planting the omnic monk on his rear. It was a blessing in disguise though, as it left Zenyatta just low enough to catch McCree's hand as the cowboy fell just a little short. The generators flared into life as Zenyatta pulled McCree aboard with some effort. “Thanks, partner,” McCree said with a relieved smile. “Looks like I'll have to slate myself a few more gym hours, it looks like.” He looked upwards; the hatch they were aiming for would be on the upper leg. “Looks like we still have a ways to go, though.”

“Such is life,” Zenyatta said. “But anything worth doing is never easy, yet the effort must be made, true?”

McCree nodded, his grin growing wider. “You got that right.” Next to them, Jack clicked a high-powered flashlight on and off, signalling the Kurjikstani forces that they were on the omnic.

Their climb upwards was arduous, made even more so by the speed they were forced into, and by the need to avoid being crushed by the machine's moving parts. It was a little quieter though, especially after the Kurjikstani forces had made their retreat, though the grinding of the titan's gears and joints almost made up for the lack of guns. From their elevated position, Zenyatta could see just how much of the city had been devastated. No part of the city was untouched, furrows of destroyed buildings in otherwise pristine districts speaking of potshots the omnic had taken, while behind it, practically nothing was left standing. Instead of the despair Zenyatta had felt before though, now determination filled him. “Are we close?” he called out to the people above him.

“I'm about to take a look,” Khalil called out from above. His turbines spun into life, launching him upwards. “Found it!” he said, waving to the people below. “It looks a little small, but...” he said, folding his wings inwards. “Yes, I think I can just fit!”

“You take point then!” Jack said, his climbing slow and steady. “Hold your position once you're inside! We'll be right behind you!”

*

Khalil nodded at the Oversight commander and placed a foot inside the hatch, while down below Jack yelled for “Everyone who can, follow Khalil!”. By then though, his voice was fading into the background as Khalil slid into the leg and the quiet hum of machinery took over. His boots made an uncomfortably loud clunking sound on the metal floor within, and he snapped back and forth for a few seconds, wondering if anyone had heard him, but the corridor he was in seemed strangely empty. The internal lighting tinged everything a deep shade of red that reminded Khalil uncomfortably of blood.

A sliding sound above him pulled him away from his morbid thoughts, and he quickly moved to the side while Aizad and Angela landed where he did. “Is anyone home?” Aizad asked, looking around with his weapon at the ready, just as Khalil had.

“Doesn't seem like it,” Khalil replied. “You both all right?”

“I'm fine,” Angela said.

“Not dead yet,” Aizad replied. “Speaking of which, I've thanked you for saving my life, right?” he asked Angela.

“You did, don't worry,” Angela replied.

“You can thank her again, Aizad,” Khalil said, grinning. “Third time's the charm,” he added, grinning at the younger man.

“With all respect sir, kiss my ass,” Aizad said, but even with his back turned to his subordinate, Khalil could tell he was blushing. 

“Excuse me, Captain Khalil,” Angela said, evidently not picking up on the subtext of Khalil and Aizad's conversation. “I'm sorry, I know this is certainly not the right time, but I have to ask-”

“If it's not the right time,” Jack said, sliding down behind her, “it can wait. And try to keep the chatter down, folks- I don't know how much of our comms traffic they can pick up on or block,” he said. “So we're going to keep things a little old-school. No comms unless absolutely necessary, we're going to be using good ol' Mark I voice boxes for this op as much as possible,” he said, tapping his throat.

“Understood, though I doubt it would help!” Khalil said, spotting movement in the distance. “I think they know we're here!”

A flight of drones advanced on the squad, laser sights flickering through the air as they tried to find their targets. Those few seconds of hesitation were more than enough for the rest of the squad to find their own targets though, and the swarm was quickly torn apart by both bullet and bolt. Even the Egyptians' nonlethal ammunition were more than enough to throw off what few drones they hit, making them easier targets for the rest of the squad.

“Well, that was easy,” McCree said after those few packed seconds had passed. “Too easy, you think?” he said, turning to Jack.

“Seems like it to me,” the commander said, pointing grimly at a security camera that had popped up from a wall. 

Suddenly, a voice that could only be described as an audible sneer came blasting through the loudpseakers. “We have intruders in the right leg! I repeat, intruders in the right leg!”

“Well, there goes the element of surprise,” Jack growled, but the voice was not done yet.

“You thought you were so clever, didn't you, hacking my cameras so I couldn't see you, huh?” it said, and Khalil's eyebrows rose. “Too bad! Maybe, just _maybe_ you shouldn't have caused so much noise destroying those drones, you ever consider that, hmmm?!” Hearing this, Khalil turned to the rest of the team, only to find them mirroring his bewildered expression. 

“I don't know what's going on, but the mission comes first,” a visibly irritated Jack said. “Whatever that was about, we'll just have to deal with it when it comes. Let's go,” he said, taking point with Khalil and Aizad following closely behind.

It didn't take long for them to face resistance- a group of Russian soldiers in black uniform and light body armour along with their pet drones had set up a barricade in the passageway leading from the legs to the torso. Khalil had to admit, it wasn't a bad move; both the power plant and command centre were located in the torso, and the passageway they were taking was the only way in from the leg they were in. Not only that, but the tunnel they had to take was pretty much just a smooth metal cylinder- between the omnic's thumping gait, the bare tunnel, and the squad's lack of numbers, they were at a severe disadvantage.

As Jack and Khalil tried to hash out a plan, the Russians' initial burst of fire driving them back down to the tunnel's entrance, Zenyatta rushed ahead of them. His body was glowing gold, a miniature sun floating down the passageway, seemingly impervious to the bullets and laser bolts smashing against him. As an astonished squad watched, the monk thrust out one of his hands, but instead of the energy bolts Khalil had seen him fire, this time one of the spheres constantly orbiting Zenyatta began to circle around one of the soldiers, who frantically tried to wave it off. 

Only then did Zenyatta fire. The bolt only grazed the soldier, and Khalil felt like yelling at the omnic- how could he miss at that range?! But then the lightly wounded soldier started screaming like her body was on fire, her agonized shrieking echoing through the halls. “Red orbs!” Zenyatta said over the comms, the strain he was under plainly audible as he fired another energy bolt at an advancing drone. “Shoot to wound! Please!” 

Khalil looked at Aizad, and they both shrugged at the same time before rising out of cover and running forward, using Zenyatta as a distraction and cover. Zenyatta had placed more spheres around more soldiers now, which the Egyptians figured made them primary targets. Their rockets were meant for nonlethal purposes, but not even they could tell that once the rockets hit. Aizad's hit his target in the shoulder, while Khalil's hit his squarely in the jaw, but both the defending soldiers went down like the rockets had blown limbs off. Aizad's target screamed for a few moments before falling silent (unconscious, the squad was to find later), and Khalil's opponent fell down writhing and crying in pain.

The Russians at the barricade tried to intensify their fire on Zenyatta, but even as his glow faded, another replaced it as Angela began directing her restorative energies into the monk. Quick bursts from Jack's rifle brought drones down and kept the Russians' heads low, but if Khalil had to give any prizes for that combat, he'd certainly put McCree into the running. After all, it takes a rare person to simply run towards an enemy line, even a disorganized one, then simply start punching people, his cybernetic fist gleaming in the red light. 

A soldier tried coming at McCree with a knife, but the omnic chose that moment to fire its guns once more, sending both McCree and his would-be assassin to the ground. McCree leapt back up, while his attacked howled in pain, grabbing the elbow he'd bumped on the floor while howling in agony. When Khalil reached their lines, he could swear some of them were almost grateful for the punches he and Aizad gave them that knocked them unconscious. “What did you do to them?” Khalil asked Zenyatta, as they strode over the unconscious bodies of the Russians.

“I increased the signals from their pain receptors,” Zenyatta said, carefully shifting a groaning soldier's twisted body into a more comfortable position. Despite being an omnic, he sounded like he was straining to breathe, and Khalil could certainly understand why. “Anything above a simple scratch would have overloaded almost every pain receptor in their bodies.”

“Well,” Khalil said, grinning, “it seems I have to reconsider what I understood about pacifists.” Zenyatta nodded slowly, but Khalil didn't know enough about omnics to guess what the omnic thought of that. A red blinking light caught Khalil's attention, and he turned his eye towards one of the fallen soldiers' comms “Oh, this is too good!” he grinned, holding it up for everyone to see. “It seems like they were broadcasting everything!” He looked at it again and checked the readout. “It has just stopped though- maybe someone cut it off...”

Before he could think any further, Jack spoke up as he brought up the rear. “We ought to take them out, just in case,” pointing the business end of his rifle at a moaning soldier.

“NO!” Zenyatta shouted, then “No,” he said, a little more controlled this time. “They should be in enough pain that the aches and joint pains should keep them from moving long enough for us to reach our objectives!”

“Are you sure about that, Zenyatta?” Jack asked as he slowly turned to Zenyatta, an undertone of menace in his otherwise professional tone. 

“As sure as you are that you can lead us to a quick victory,” the omnic. His voice was becoming calmer, but firmer, and as Zenyatta finished saying that, Khalil heard a loud intake of breath from McCree while Jack's eyes darkened. 

“Listen to him, Commander,” Khalil said, his tongue moving ahead of his brain for a moment, but it was enough for Jack to shift his attention from Zenyatta to Khalil.

“Go on,” Jack said, his voice strangely calm as well.

Thankfully, Khalil had already thought of an answer; it was a ruthless one, but Khalil had the feeling it would appeal to Jack. “Injured soldiers will need transport back to a medic or medical station, pulling resources from elsewhere to help them,” he said. “Kill them, and all we'd be doing is making it clear that we need to be resisted to the fullest.” He expected resistance from Jack for saying that, or maybe acceptance. Maybe a firm, curt nod of the head as he begrudgingly agreed.

What he did not expect was _embarrassment_. “I- yes, you're right,” Jack said, his voice as neutral as ever, but there was no missing the brief look of sudden realization Khalil had seen cast a shadow on his expression. “In that case, we need to be moving,” he said, calmly and firmly, as if that moment of shock hadn't existed at all. “They won't be down for long.”

Khalil turned to McCree, and the cowboy simply waved him off and shrugged. Khalil only shook his head in response and turned to Jack. “Where to now?” he asked.

“The command centre, same as always,” Jack said, peering down a turn in the hallway, rifle at the ready. Suddenly, the disembodied voice flared back into life.

“I heeear you~!” the speaker said, his voice dripping malicious glee. “You may have blinded me, fools, but I've still got my ears! You'll never take the engine room! Never!” he said in a quiet hiss, before his voice rose back to a high-pitched crescendo. “Guards! New orders!”

Another shared bewildered look between the squad. “Maybe...” Angela ventured. “Maybe whoever is speaking is trying to help us?”

“Or maybe someone's playing mind games,” Jack said, beckoning them forward.

“Still, though,” Angela said. “There must surely be some path we can take that those heading to the engine room wouldn't,” she insisted.

“There might be...” Jack mused, before slipping back into his command role. “Either way, we'll have out answers once we reach the command centre,” he added.

Despite Jack's misgivings, though, the squad's advance up the omnic seemed to be surprisingly barren of soldiery. Once or twice they were forced down small side corridors as squads of troops rushed past them, but the attentions of the latter seemed focused elsewhere. Jack still looked suspicious, but Khalil suspected the doctor was right- whoever the speaker was, he was actively trying to help the squad.

Not that it was fully effective. The command centre was a huge pillar suspended in the middle of a massive spherical space somewhere deep in the omnic's torso, cabling and metal 'spokes' emerging from the trunk into the sphere's inner surface. A loud hum echoed through the chamber, though not loud enough to be deafening. Two bridges also joined it to the omnic proper. One, Khalil presumed, led to the engine room, which was where most of the pillar's troops must have gone.

Most, not all.

Peering out from the corner of the doorway he was hiding behind, Khalil could see another group of soldiers hiding behind the covered railing around the pillar's walkway, while another of their number, in what seemed to Khalil to be a ludicrously impractical dress uniform, harangued them. His voice was too far for Khalil to hear, but from the way he was shouting and yelling, he couldn't have been doing anything else. Their numbers were small enough that Khalil thought the squad could take them on alone, but the thought of a firefight in the 'brain' of the omnic didn't seem inviting to him, and he said as much to Jack as the other man peered in as well.

“Agreed,” Jack said, nodding. “Their attention seems to be focused on this side of the bridge, maybe one or two of us can sneak behind...”

The halls shook as the omnic fired once more. “The chamber's too big to circle around in time, and once the soldiers realize they have been fooled, they'll overwhelm us,” Khalil said. “What do you think, Jack?” he asked, turning to the Oversight commander. “One last push?”

“Well, first, it's Commander Morrison,” Jack said, taking out a cigarette from his belt and lighting it. “And second?” he asked, grinning savagely. “Why not?”

*

This was not a good day to be Baron Ilya Kaganovitch Fedorov, currently hiding behind a few inches of metal plating, located within the brain of a robot the size of a skyscraper. True, there were a lot of days when the young, sandy-haired nobleman felt that he wanted to be anyone but him, anywhere but where he was. It was just that... never in his life did he feel more justified in feeling that way than right then.

And it had started off so well, too! He gawked with awe at the majesty of the omnic he was assigned to, roared with joy as much as the rest of his friends as it descended into the water, and endured the same strange mixture of trepidation and utter boredom as the metal beast walked across the bottom of the Black Sea. He cheered when it emerged, and with every shot it took at the Kurjikstani forces trying to stop it. If there ever was a symbol of Russian might, of the Russian Empire finally retaking its place in the world, it was this war machine.

Then the screaming started.

Ilya was in the command centre when the agonized shrieks of the leg's defenders came across the comms- all the comms. The man in charge was his uncle, one Count Fyodor Gregoriev, kept yelling at their pilot to “DO SOMETHING, YOU FOOL!” with such fury Ilya thought he'd ignite the moustache he kept immaculately groomed. Despite the Count's ferocity though, their pilot was unable to comply. From what Ilya managed to catch, between the Russians' heavy encryption, the omnic's own weak internal hacking systems (“It was built as a construction machine, then refitted as a war machine, Your Excellency!” the pilot had protested) and the pilot's own lack of skill, not to mention having to divide his attention between piloting the titan and re-encrypting the comms, it took a while for everything to be re-secured.

By then though, the damage had been done. Several squads had volunteered to go to their comrades' rescue, but the Duke wouldn't allow it, 'to maintain discipline' as he put it, but Ilya could see the man was more than a little frightened himself. Not only was his supposedly impenetrable war machine breached, it was now host to attackers who could visit unspeakable tortures on anyone in their way. The fact that their cameras seemed to show nothing only added to the terror slowly spreading through the Russian forces.

Now the pilot had sent everyone who could be sent to the engine room, the Count held position outside with what he called a 'handpicked squad of heroes' and what Ilya called 'the poor idiots who were in his sight when he repeated the pilot's order', while Ilya himself was left in the pilot's chamber, the last line of defence against any intruders. Ilya shook his head; no matter what happened, he'd be in for it- either whoever got into the omnic tramples all over him, or the Count stops the intruders, and Ilya will have to face the consequences of nepotism he didn't even want. His squadmates were going to kill him _at least_ , he was sure of that!

It wasn't fair. Just a few months before he, like almost every other Russian soldier chosen to be onboard the omnic, had been nothing more than a minor noble scion, expected to be an expensive burden to the family. This was to be their hour of glory! His hour of glory! Something to prove to his family that he still had worth! And now, he was facing the kind of combat he imagined took place in the frozen pits of Siberia. This wasn't how things were supposed to work, damn it-

Gunfire. More screaming. The roar of missiles. The air crackled with the sound of energy bolts igniting it.

And through it all, the thudding of bodies hitting the ground. With a little shriek of fear dying in his throat, Ilya raised his weapon to the door, when he heard a humming whirr behind him.

“Relax, soldier,” the pilot said, his voice distorted by the helmet he was wearing. “I'm activating the control chamber's last drones.”

Ilya glanced around at the small combat drones floating around him, wishing he could take heart in their presence. As potent as their weaponry was, they surely had no chance of stopping the intruders who had either slipped past or defeated the soldiers in their way without stopping. “Th-thank you,” Ilya said anyway, adding in a “Sir,” for good measure. Had he known that those would be his last words, perhaps he would have been a little more eloquent.

The doors to the sanctum hissed open, and Ilya mentally cursed himself- of course they would be able to hack their way past the door! Why wouldn't they? A mere door would have been nothing compared to the obstacles they had already bypassed!

Then again, the intruders seemed as surprised as he was; a swarthy man in blue power armour and an omnic in robes were kneeling by the door's control panel, the man's eyes as wide as Ilya's. Two more men stood in front of the door- one with a battle rifle, another with a large revolver. And was that an angel standing behind them?

But above the astonishment Ilya felt at the strange group in front of him, was realization. _They weren't expecting that to happen,_ Ilya realized. _Someone opened the door for-_

Pain erupted in Ilya's back for a moment, before his whole body went numb, and darkness rapidly overtook his vision.

*

Jack moved to the side instinctively as Angela and Zenyatta rushed past him to the twitching Russian soldier on the ground, small arcs of electricity jumping across the young soldier's body. That was about all the attention Jack decided to pay to the fallen man; he had more important things to focus on. Like the pilot- Jack expected someone younger, but the man who had turned his seat to face the Oversight strike force (and it _was_ an Oversight strike force, damn it!) with his hands raised seemed about Jack's own age. At least, judging from how the pilot's long ponytail, thin moustache and beard were all the same shade of silvery-blonde that Jack's hair was.

“I surrender,” the pilot said.

“I could see that,” Jack said dryly as he walked towards the pilot, both Angela's staff and Zenyatta's orbs humming slowly behind him. “Thanks for the help on the way up, by the way.”

The pilot shrugged. “I wish I could have done more, but the Russians were watching. We won't have to worry about them coming back up, by the way,” he said, thumbing at the camera screens behind him. In each of them, Russian soldiers were trying to fight off endless waves of drones; as skilled as the soldiers were, the sheer weight of the drones' numbers was taking a toll. “Non-lethal, of course,” he said, nodding at the scowling Angela. “And if they manage to get past the drones,” the pilot said smugly, “I've sealed every door between here and them, with a primary override protocol making sure I'm the only one with the clearance to open them.”

Jack whistled, even clapping a little. “That's impressive, Mr...?”

“Sven,” the pilot said. “Sven Björnsson,” he said, holding out a hand-

-only to stare down the barrel of Jack's battle rifle. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Björnsson,” Jack said in the same friendly tone, with the same friendly smile he'd been giving Sven, who was now staring down the battle rifle's barrel with eyes as wide as dinner plates. “I'm Commander Jack Morrison, Oversight. You're under arrest.”

* * * * *

There was still so much to do, Angela realized, as she watched the Kurjikstani soldiers lead what few Russians were still conscious out of the kneeling mech. Kebir had made it clear to his troops he wanted his brother Hydarov alive- though he'd be flexible on how intact he needed to be. Jack had secured both the Junkers and Sven for further interrogation. The Russians were in full retreat; their grand invasion of Kurjikstan had barely lasted a day. Of course, the widely televised sight of the Russian omnic firing warning shots (no fusion artillery though, Zenyatta was very insistent on that) at the Russian Black Sea Fleet soon put paid to those ambitions. There were going to be political repercussions, economic sanctions, maybe even more uprisings in Siberia...

And all Angela could think of was asking a question.

Now back in her usual medical coat, she left the medical tent with Zenyatta's blessing (and hug), finding the Egyptians' own little base camp in a nearby mosque. The sun had just begun to set, and the call to late afternoon prayer had just ended, the Arabic still echoing through the empty streets. Coming up to the mosque, she was both surprised and grateful to see Captain Khalil standing at attention outside with several Kurjikstani officers, judging by their rank insignias. Two empty suits of powered armour lay on the ground beside him. “Captain Khalil,” she said, keeping her voice down so as to not bother the worshippers in the mosque. “Skipping prayers?”

“Postponing them,” Khalil said, looking back for a moment. “It's been a long day; the common troops deserve the honour of praying quickly. It's the least we could do for them, I think,” he said. “What brings you here, Doctor?”

Angela took a deep breath. She'd been preparing herself for this simple question since she first realized Helix was in Kurjikstan as well, but her chest still tightened a little. “I don't suppose you know an Amélie Guillard, do you?” she asked, realizing just how silly the question was as it came out of her mouth. All the little self-justifications, the mental contortions she undertook to make it sound better dissolved in cold reality. Helix had thousands of employees all over the world; maybe Khalil could ask around, but thinking he knew her personally-

“I know her personally,” Khalil replied with a surprised grin. “Bluish purple skin, amazing sniper?” he asked as well, and Angela couldn't stop herself nodding. “She's a member of my squad, actually!” he said, with a short laugh.

“You squad? Is she here then?” Angela asked quickly, unable to keep the anticipation and nervousness out of her voice, but Khalil didn't seem to notice, and she felt the embarrassment fade a little.

“I'm afraid not,” Khalil said sheepishly, shrugging. “Helix didn't think Russia would do anything like this, so they split the squad up: a token force here as a show of support, and the rest to Korea to represent Helix in a security conference they have going on there.” He grinned. “At least we'll have better stories than they will, _insha'allah!_ ” he said with a short laugh. “In any case, where were we? Oh yes, Amélie- I assume she's a friend of yours?”

 _I hope so, at the very least._ “We used to work together, back at Oversight,” she said.

“Oh? Oh, I see...” Khalil said, with a strangely knowing tone that confused Angela- it was as if he'd realized something. “Well, ah, if you want to speak with her, we could try,” he said, raising his arm. “It shouldn't be too late over there.”

“No, no, that's all right,” Angela said, waving him off hurriedly. “I wouldn't want to interrupt her if she is in the middle of anything important,” she added as she took out a small piece of paper and handed it to Khalil. “My contact information,” she said. “If you could pass this along to Amélie, I would be grateful.”

“ _Insha'allah,_ it wouldn't be a problem,” Khalil said, entering the information onto his suit's personal databanks. “Is there, ah- is there anything you want to tell her? Any requests you want me to pass along?”

“No, no,” Angela said. “Just... just tell Amélie I'd like to hear from her, if she has the time.”

Khalil nodded. “”I will, I promise,” he said quietly.

*

Khalil glanced down the path Angela took back to the medical tents. They had made small talk for a few minutes before it was Khalil and the Kurjikstani officers' turn to perform their prayers, and it was quite a feat for Khalil to keep his mind on the task at hand, at least by his reckoning. If that didn't earn him a little extra divine favour, he didn't know what would.

His eyes went from the road to the control panel at his wrist. For a moment, he wondered if he should do this- after all, it could cause friction within the squad; the last thing he needed was for Fareeha to feel bitter towards Amélie. Irritated, he shook his head to clear it; Fareeha was a big girl, she could handle this. Besides, after everything Angela had done for the Helix agents that day, passing along her contact data was the least Khalil could do.

On a whim, he opened the panel and tried to pass Angela's contact details along anyway; Amélie was a diligent soldier, he knew she'd check her inbox when she could. To his complete lack of surprise, the message couldn't be sent; what few telecommunications channels were available in Boklovo were almost all under government control, and those that weren't were being jammed, monitored or both in case there were still Russian agents trying to piggyback.

Ahead of him, Mahmud called out, asking his captain to hurry up- he wanted to see if a coffee shop he had become fond of was still standing. Aizad was silent, but Khalil could tell the man was starting to get a little impatient as well. Waving back at them, Khalil quickened his pace to catch up, though he still felt a little guilty. Standing guard at a security conference couldn't have been very stimulating for the poor girl; she was probably dying of boredom.

* * * * *

The meeting of Russia's Industrial Council... wasn't going very well. Not for Russia, at least. Which meant that it was going swimmingly for Katya Volskaya, and she could certainly see that the man about to burst a blood vessel in front of her knew it. It was all she could do to not burst into laughter at seeing General Demichev in such a state.

“In short,” Katya had been saying, “I think it is extremely obvious that the resources that went into restoring Nikolai's omnic,” she said, emphasizing the name, “would have been much better if they were used in a... broader fashion, shall we say.”

“Like, what, hmmm?” Nikolai Demichev growled at her from across the table. “Your toy robots?”

“And why not?” Katya countered. “At least when one Syvatogor goes down, we'll have at least one more to replace it,” she said smugly.

Eyes flashing with anger, Demichev was about to reply when an upraised hand forestalled his response. All the industrial and military leaders at the table looked to its head with silence, if not respect. Most of them at least- Katya felt she could somewhat understand the pressures that Tsarina Aleksandra IV was going through. Not in scale, certainly, but in type, definitely.

The stress certainly showed on the Tsarina's face. She was a wispy young woman barely out of her teens, but there were already crows' feet at the corner of her eyes, which were dull from exhaustion. “M-maybe we should listen to Miss Volskaya,” she said softly. “It did cost Russia a lot to rebuild the war omnic, and I'm not sure we can afford to build one from scratch- right, Vadim?” she said, turning to a stern-faced man next to her, eyes creasing beneath his widow's peak.

“The Tsarina is right,” the man said solemnly, tapping a few buttons on the pad in front of him, and calling up a holographic screen in front of all the attendants. Dense lines of figures and phrases covered the screen, but the man provided a succinct summary. “Even reconstructing another omnic, as we did before, would bleed Russia dry.”

“Bah!” a large man in an expensive, ill-fitting suit said from next to Demichev. “Have you forgotten, Kozlov? That's what Siberia is for! Last I heard, the _katorgas_ are still operating under capacity,” he said, referring to the brutal labour camps that dotted the Siberian landscape. “We face so much trouble there, surely we haven't run out of dissidents to put in them? We get resources, and lose rebels! We must step up our efforts!”

 _One wonders if they're not the reason we face so many rebels,_ Katya thought, fighting to keep the scowl from her face and not quite succeeding. Still, she knew from experience that argument wouldn't carry much weight, even from many of those who were on her side, so she went for a different tack. “That would take time and further investments, neither of which we'll have much of once the international community-”

“Hah! 'International community', she says,” Demichev snorted. “Why should we care about what foreigners think?”

“We should care because they are the ones with the money and resources,” Vadim replied calmly. “As rich as Siberia is, not even it can sustain Russia forever, especially if we are considering further... expeditions,” he said. 

“Hmph!” the fat man huffed, slumping into a sullen silence in his chair.

Katya looked around the room, trying to gauge the general feeling in the room. Many of the assembled businessmen and generals were opportunists, but for now, they would do for support, even though Katya knew she'd pay for those favours in some way or another later. The man sitting next to the Tsarina, Vadim Kozlov, though, was firmly in Katya's camp. It wasn't much, Katya knew- a clique of two against all those who'd ruin Russia for gain and glory, but she'd have to work with what she had. 

An older woman from near the other end of the table cleared her throat. “Are you sure of your figures, Vadim?” she asked, and when he nodded, she went on. “If that is the case, then perhaps Miss Volskaya's plan is for the best. Quantity has a quality of its own, after all.”

Another general nodded. “Spreading our firepower could help,” he mused. “Especially in Siberia. Having Syvatogor support would make it easier to keep order,” he added, and Katya involuntarily tensed up. While she did believe that Siberia was rightfully Russian, that only made their treatment of its people worse in her mind. In a perfect world, they would have been welcomed back into Russia's arms, treated with the same dignity and respect as Katya herself enjoyed.

But Katya didn't live in a perfect world- and that was, if not desirable, then bearable at least. There were murmurs of agreement in the room- it seemed there was enough tentative support for mass-producing Katya's Syvatogors, and in a perfect world that would have been enough, As it was, Katya knew she'd have to spend the next few weeks, maybe even months, wheeling and dealing (and outright bribing) to shore up her support, and to undermine that of Demichev and his crew.

Because if a perfect world didn't exist, then Katya would do her best to make one. She could no less for her Motherland.


End file.
